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STEPHEN  FRENCH  WHITMAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

William  P.  Wreden 


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"COME  CLOSER,  i  WANT  TO  LOOK  AT  YOU." 


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BY 


STEPHEN  FRENCH. WHITMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "PREDESTINED,"  ETC. 


D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK     ::     1922     ::     LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,   BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,   1921-1922,  by  The  Ridgway  Company 

FRINTED    Ilf    THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


3  A' 

W 


PART  ONE 


SACRIFICE 


LILLA  DELLIVER'S  parents,  killed  in  a  railway  ac 
cident,  left  their  child  a  legacy  other  than  the  for 
tune  that  the  New  York  newspapers  mentioned  in 
the  obituaries. 

The  mother  had  been  tall,  blonde,  rather  wildly 
handsome,  with  the  look  of  one  of  those  neurotic 
queens  who  suppress  under  a  proud  manner  many 
psychic  disturbances.  Painfully  fastidious  in  her 
tastes,  she  had  avoided  every  unnecessary  contact 
with  mediocrity.  Reclining  on  a  couch  in  her  bou 
doir,  she  read  French  novels  saturated  with  an 
exquisite  sophistication.  Then,  letting  the  book 
slip  from  her  fingers,  she  gazed  into  space,  as  list 
less  as  a  lady  immured  in  a  seraglio  on  the  Bos- 
phorous.  At  night,  if  the  opera  was  Tristan,  she 
went  down  to  her  limousine  with  the  furtive  eager 
ness  of  a  woman  escaping  from  monotony  into  a 
secret  world.  She  drove  home  with  feverish  cheeks, 
and  when  her  husband  spoke  to  her  she  gave  him 
the  blank  stare  of  a  somnambulist. 

After  a  busy  social  season  she  was  liable  to  mel- 

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ancholia.  She  sat  by  the  window  in  a  charming 
negligee,  paler  than  a  camellia,  hardly  turning  her 
head  when,  at  twilight,  her  child  was  led  in  to  kiss 
her. 

Recovering,  somehow,  she  traveled. 

On  those  journeys  every  possible  hardship  was 
neutralized  by  wealth.  Yet  even  for  her  the  sea 
could  not  always  be  calm,  or  the  skies  of  the  Midi 
and  the  Riviera  blue.  In  Venice,  at  midnight,  the 
soft,  hoarse  cries  of  the  gondoliers  made  her  toss 
fretfully  on  her  canopied  bed.  In  Switzerland,  as 
dawn  flushed  the  snow  peaks,  awakened  by  the 
virile  voices  of  the  guides,  she  started  up  from  her 
pillow  in  a  daze  of  resentment  and  perverse  an 
tipathy. 

She  calmed  herself  by  listening  to  the  sermons 
of  swamis  in  yellow  robes,  and  by  sitting  in  cathe 
drals  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  splendor  of  the 
altar. 

Wherever  they  traveled,  her  husband  went  about 
inquiring  for  new  physicians — "specialists  in  neu 
rasthenia.  "  But  then  he  usually  felt  the  need  of 
a  physician's  services  also. 

He  was  taller  than  his  wife,  a  brownish,  meager, 
handsome  man  with  dark  circles  round  his  eyes.  A 
doctor  had  once  told  him  that  some  persons  never 
had  more  than  a  limited  amount  of  nervous  en 
ergy;  so  he  was  always  trying  to  conserve  his 
share,  as  if  the  prolongation  of  his  idle  life  were 
very  important.  Yet  he  was  not  dull.  He  had 

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written  several  essays,  on  classical  subjects,  that 
were  privately  circulated  in  sumptuous  bindings. 
He  played  Brahms  with  unusual  talent.  But  cer 
tain  colors  and  perfumes  set  his  nerves  on  edge, 
while  the  sight  of  blood,  if  more  than  a  drop  or 
two,  made  him  feel  faint. 

Disillusioned  from  travel,  because  they  had 
viewed  all  those  fair,  exotic  scenes  through  the 
blurred  auras  of  their  emotional  infirmities,  he 
and  his  wife  returned  to  their  home  in  New  York. 
There  they  were  protected  against  all  contact  with 
ugliness,  all  ignoble  influences,  all  sources  of  mi- 
happiness  except  themselves. 

It  was  a  stately  old  house — for  two  hundred 
years  the  Dellivers  and  the  Balbians  had  been 
stately  families — a  house  always  rather  dim,  its 
shadows  aglimmer  with  richness,  and  here  and 
there  a  beam  of  light  illuminating  some  flawless, 
precious  object.  It  was  a  house  of  silent  servants, 
of  faces  imprinted  with  a  gracious  weariness,  of 
beautifully  modulated  low  voices,  of  noble  reti 
cence.  Yet  all  the  while  the  place  quivered  from 
secret  transports  of  anguish. 

In  this  atmosphere  Lilla,  the  child,  was  like  a 
delicate  instrument  on  which  are  recorded,  to  be 
ultimately  reproduced,  myriad  vibrations  too  sub 
tle  for  appreciation  by  the  five  senses.  Or,  one 
might  say,  the  small,  apparent  form  that  this  man 
and  this  woman  had  created  in  their  likeness — as 
it  were  a  fatal  sublimation  of  their  blended  physi- 

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cal  selves — became  the  fragile  vessel  into  which, 
drop  by  drop,  the  essences  of  all  their  most  unfor 
tunate  emotions  were  being  distilled. 

Sometimes,  at  a  moment  of  perspicacity,  the 
father's  face  was  distorted  by  a  spasm  of  remorse. 
Looking  at  his  child,  he  was  thinking: 

"By  what  right  have  we  done  this?" 

For  that  matter,  he  was  always  oppressed  by 
miseries  foreign  to  normal  men.  For  instance,  he 
fluctuated  between  the  ardors  of  a  pagan  and  an 
anchorite,  at  one  hour  reembracing  aestheticism, 
at  another  fleeing  back  to  a  bleak  sanctuary  where 
he  hoped  to  escape  some  vague,  immense  reproach. 
Too  complex  for  an  irrevocable  decision,  too  weak 
to  stand  firm  against  the  pressure  either  of  pan 
theism  or  an  absolutely  spiritual  idea,  he  was  an 
insignificant  creature  worried  and  torn  between 
two  vast  antagonists. 

Then,  too,  he  was  afflicted  with  a  frequent  symp 
tom  of  neuroticism,  namely,  superstition ;  and  this 
superstition  was  sharpened  by  the  usual  morbid 
forebodings — the  characteristic  expectations  of 
calamity. 

He  accepted  the  idea  that  there  were  persons 
who  could  fathom  the  destinies  of  others,  that  the 
palm  of  one's  hand  was  cryptic  with  one's  future 
fortunes,  and  that  the  remotest  planets  had  an  in 
fluence  on  one 's  life.  Furtively,  then,  as  one  might 
enter  a  place  dedicated  to  some  shameful  mystery, 
this  erudite,  handsome,  wretched  gentleman 

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slipped  into  the  sanctums  of  the  diviners,  where, 
with  a  feeling  of  degradation  and  imbecility,  yet 
with  a  pounding  heart,  he  listened  to  prophecies 
uttered  by  the  aid  of  playing  cards,  horoscopes, 
and  crystal  balls. 

All  he  asked  was  some  assurance  that  he  would 
presently  find  peace.  They  all  promised  him  that 
this  desire  of  his  would  soon  be  realized. 

Perhaps  they  would  have  called  it  realized  by 
that  crash  of  trains  in  the  night,  which  he  and 
his  wife  hardly  heard  before  their  fine,  restless 
bodies  were  bereft  of  life. 

So  one  day,  when  Lilla  was  six  years  old,  the 
drawing-room  suddenly  blossomed  with  white 
roses.  Next  morning  the  orphan  was  taken  away 
by  Aunt  Althea  Balbian  to  another  house,  on  lower 
Fifth  Avenue. 


CHAPTER  II 

Miss  BALBIAN'S  house  provided  an  appropriate 
setting  for  its  pale,  aristocratic,  chastely  fervent 
owner.  But  its  sedate,  antiquated,  brick  exterior 
— unaltered  since  the  presidency  of  Andrew  Jack 
son — afforded  hardly  a  hint  of  the  conservative 
beauty  that  pervaded  it. 

Here  the  glitter  of  old  chandeliers  fell  upon  the 
suave  outlines  of  colonial  furniture  upholstered 
with  sage  green  and  mulberry-colored  fabrics, 
chimney  pieces  of  mellow  marble  carved  into 
graceful  flourishes  and  bearing  on  their  shelves 
quaint  bric-a-brac,  family  portraits  in  frames  that 
it  would  have  been  a  sacrilege  to  furbish  up — 
ladies  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  1812,  French  and 
English  gentlemen  in  antique  uniforms,  a  few  of 
these  likenesses  doubly  precious  because  they  were 
painted  so  naively.  But  this  "early- American" 
effect  was  adulterated  by  objects  that  Miss  Balbian 
had  acquired  on  her  travels,  such  as  medieval  chal 
ices,  coffers  covered  with  vellum  and  encrusted 
with  jewels,  and  a  few  authenticated  paintings 
from  that  period  when  the  men  of  Italy,  at  a  breath 
of  inspiration  from  the  Athenian  tomb,  perceived, 

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SACRIFICE 

instead  of  the  glamour  of  a  celestial  paradise,  the 
gorgeousness  of  this  world. 

In  this  gracefully  puritanical  atmosphere,  these 
latter  treasures,  imbued  with  a  disturbing  alien 
richness,  were  like  thoughts  that  a  woman,  hedged 
round  by  innumerable  obscure  oppressions,  might 
gather  from  afar  and  store  away  in  her  heart. 

Lilla,  in  this  environment,  became  a  juvenile 
epicurean,  precocious  in  aesthetic  judgment,  intol 
erant  of  everything  that  was  not  exquisite.  Her 
opinions  amused  and  touched  her  aunt,  who,  for 
a  while,  derived  from  that  imitation  a  nearly  ma 
ternal  pride.  Miss  Althea  Balbian  redoubled  her 
efforts  to  form  Lilla  according  to  her  most  exalted 
ideas ;  and,  as  a  result,  she  implanted  in  that  little 
charge  still  more  complexities  of  impulse — a 
greater  sensitiveness  to  the  lures  of  mortal  beauty, 
together  with  something  of  her  own  recoil  from 
all  the  ultimate  consequences  of  that  sensitive 
ness. 

In  fine,  the  devoted  woman  was  preparing  Lilla 
unwittingly  for  an  accentuation  of  the  conflict  that 
already  had  been  prefigured  in  her  parents. 

The  child  was  so  fragile-looking,  there  was  about 
her  so  strange  an  air  of  sensibility,  that  many  per 
sons  who  had  known  her  father  and  mother  shook 
their  heads  in  pity.  Some  suggested  that  she 
ought  to  be  reared  in  the  country,  to  play  hard  all 
day ' '  close  to  nature. ' 9  But  the  play  of  other  chil 
dren  exhausted  her,  as  if  she,  too,  possessed  "only 

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a  limited  amount  of  nervous  energy."  She  had 
nervous  headaches  and  feverish  spells  from  no  ap 
parent  cause.  When  the  weather  was  changing,  or 
when  a  thunder  storm  impended,  the  governess 
found  it  hard  to  manage  her.  Then,  suddenly, 
certain  odors  and  sounds  filled  her  with  indistinct 
visions  of  felicity.  At  night,  when  there  was 
music  in  the  house,  she  crept  from  her  bed  to  the 
staircase,  and  sat  listening  with  burning  cheeks 
and  icy  hands. 

Next  day  there  came  over  her  an  immense,  hazy 
discontent  with  everything.  And  her  tragic  little 
face — her  eyes,  skin,  and  fluffy  hair  all  harmonized 
in  the  most  delicate  shade  of  brown — resembled 
the  face  of  some  European  grande  amoureuse  seen 
through  the  small  end  of  an  opera  glass. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Balbian  at  last  to  the  charm 
ing,  quiet  ladies  who  sat  in  her  library  drinking 
tea  from  old  china  cups.  "Lilla  is  a  strange,  I 
may  say  a  startling,  child. ' r  And  allowing  herself 
one  of  her  rare  public  failures  of  expression — a 
look  of  uneasiness — she  added,  half  swallowing 
her  words,  "I  sometimes  ask  myself " 


CHAPTER  III 

NEARLY  every  spring,  Aunt  Althea,  craving  "her 
beloved  Europe,"  took  Lilla  abroad. 

Escorted  by  an  elderly  courier  who  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  gentleman  in  waiting  at  the  Vatican, 
they  moved  with  royal  deliberation,  patronizing 
luxurious  hotels,  celebrated  landscapes,  notable 
art  collections.  The  governess  was  supplemented 
with  the  best  local  teachers  of  music  and  lan 
guages;  but  it  was  Aunt  Althea,  with  her  proud 
fastidiousness,  her  eclecticism  at  once  virginal  and 
ardent,  who  set  the  keynote  for  Lilla 's  education. 

All  the  young  girl's  inherited  repugnances  were 
enhanced.  All  her  sensibilities  were  aggravated. 
With  the  lapse  of  time  and  the  expansion  of  her 
world,  her  impassionable  nature  vibrated  still 
more  extravagantly,  at  the  most  subtle  stimuli^ 
between  the  poles  of  happiness  and  pain — which 
two  sensations  sometimes  seemed  to  her  identical. 

Now  she  was  lovelier  than  her  mother  had  ever 
been — a  tall,  fragile,  pale  brown  creature  whose 
carefully  composed  lips,  whose  deliberately  slow 
grace,  only  half  concealed  that  inner  intensity  of 
hers. 

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She  had,  indeed,  the  exceptional,  agitating  look 
— that  softly  fatal  aspect — which  is  seen  in  those 
who  are  destined  to  extraordinary  lives.  It  was 
as  though  strange,  nnprecipitated  events  were 
clinging  round  her  slender  body  like  an  aura :  the 
promises  of  unparalleled  adventures  in  love,  per 
haps  also  in  tragedy.  Before  her  twentieth  year 
she  had  given  this  presentiment  to  many  men, 
who,  with  a  thrill  that  may  have  been  partly  fear, 
longed  to  be  the  cause  of  those  raptures,  and  to 
accept  the  perils. 

In  an  alley  of  Constantine,  in  fierce  sunshine 
that  oppressed  and  stimulated  her  delicate  tissues, 
she  stood  before  an  old  Arab  who,  seated  on  the 
ground,  told  her  fortune  by  strewing  sand  on  a 
board. 

"You  will  be  loved  by  men,"  he  said,  after  con 
templating  apathetically  the  curlicues  of  sand. 
"And  will  be  the  death  of  men,"  he  added,  closing 
his  eyes  as  if  bored;  for  out  there,  in  the  moun 
tains  beyond  Constantine,  love  and  death,  as  part 
ners  in  the  fates  of  fair  women,  were  common 
place. 

Before  returning  to  America,  Aunt  Althea  al 
ways  managed  a  visit  to  Rome.  On  her  first  day 
there,  the  spinster  drove  out  alone,  returning  at 
twilight  with  her  eyelids  swollen  and  red.  She  had 
been,  she  said,  to  the  English  cemetery;  but  she 
declared  that  nobody  whom  she  had  known  was 
buried  there. 

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They  visited  American  ladies  who  had  married 
into  the  Roman  nobility.  In  those  historic  palaces 
the  great  rooms  were  cool,  dim,  and  resonant,  the 
women's  voices  died  away  in  space  between  the 
tapestried  walls  and  the  ceilings  frescoed  with 
pagan  deities.  Through  the  tall  doorway  entered 
young  men  with  medieval  faces,  in  quest  of  a  cup 
of  tea. 

To  Lilla  these  descendants  of  medieval  despots 
seemed  curiously  dwarfed  by  their  surroundings. 

But  her  eyes  were  apt  to  turn  wistful  when  she 
passed  the  shabby  cafes  where  famous  artists  had 
sat  brooding  over  the  masterpieces  that  she  ad 
mired.  Then  she  thought  of  Bohemian  studios  at 
dusk,  and  of  geniuses  aquiver,  like  dynamos,  with 
the  powers  that  had  taken  possession  of  them.  She 
envied  the  women  whose  lives  were  united  to  theirs 
in  an  atmosphere  where  beauty  was  always  being 
recreated,  who  basked  in  that  radiance  of  art  which 
love,  perhaps,  had  inspired. 

Of  all  the  arts  it  was  music  that  cast  over  Lilla 
the  strongest  spell. 

During  the  winter  season  in  New  York,  she 
haunted  concert  halls  where  celebrated  musicians 
played  their  works.  The  new  music,  however, 
strident  with  the  echoes  of  industrialism,  dissonant 
with  the  tumult  of  great  cities,  repelled  her.  She 
turned  instinctively  toward  the  harmonious  ro 
manticism  and  idealism  of  a  previous  age.  She 
felt  that  the  compositions  of  Schumann  and  Schu- 

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bert  were  the  language  that  had  always  been  im 
prisoned  in  her  heart,  that  could  never  reach  her 
lips,  but  that  she  now  heard,  by  a  miracle,  freed 
and  in  its  perfection. 

When  the  concert  was  over,  she  could  hardly 
prevent  herself  from  joining  the  women  who 
surged  toward  the  author  of  those  sounds,  as  if 
impelled  by  an  inexorable  force — or  possibly  by 
an  idea  that  they  must  mingle  their  lives  with  the 
life  of  the  stranger  who  could  so  interpret  their 
souls,  make  clear  to  them  their  secrets,  and  give 
them,  at  least  momentarily,  a  coherent  glimpse  of 
their  ideals. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  exit  of  a  concert  hall,  Lilla 
met  Brantome,  a  critic  of  music. 

He  was  a  robust-looking  old  Frenchman  with 
white  hair  and  the  mustaches  of  a  Viking,  display 
ing  a  leonine  countenance  out  of  which  gazed  a 
pair  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  been  made  tragi 
cal  by  some  profound  chagrin.  In  his  youth,  a 
student  in  Paris,  he  had  written  some  scores  of 
songs,  half  a  dozen  sonatas,  and  a  symphony. 
These  efforts,  though  technically  brilliant,  had 
soon  passed  into  oblivion.  After  a  long  while, 
during  which  nobody  had  heard  a  sound  from  him, 
Brantome  had  popped  up  in  the  United  States  to 
begin  his  critical  career.  Now  he  was  courted  not 
only  in  artistic  circles  but  also  in  the  fashionable 
world,  where  one  might  sometimes  see  his  haggard 
old  face  relentlessly  revealed  beneath  fine  chande- 

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Hers,  ironical  and  weary,  as  if  crushed  beneath  the 
combined  weight  of  disillusionment  and  renown. 

At  sight  of  Lilla  he  stopped  in  the  concert  hall 
doorway ;  and,  when  he  had  peered  at  her  closely, 
he  rumbled  in  her  ear : 

"I  see  that  this  afternoon  of  bad  music  has  not 
fooled  you.  You  don't  wear  the  look  that  I  dis 
covered  on  your  face  the  other  day,  when  they  had 
been  playing  Schumann.7' 

"Oh,  but  Schumann!"  And  with  a  nervous 
laugh  she  said,  "If  I  had  been  Clara  Wieck " 

"You  would  have  married  him  just  as  she  did, 
eh?  Ah,  well,  maybe  there  will  be  other  Eobert 
Schumanns.  In  fact,  two  years  ago  I  found  a  cer 
tain  young  man — but  now  he  is  dying." 

He  lost  the  smile  that  had  come  to  him  at  this 
contact.  With  a  shrug  he  passed  on,  leaving  with 
her  the  thought  of  beauty  enmeshed  by  death.  She 
wondered  who  this  young  man  was,  who  might 
have  been  another  Eobert  Schumann,  but  now  was 
dying. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OF  all  her  suitors  the  most  persistent  was  Cor 
nelius  Eysbroek. 

In  their  childhood  he  had  drawn  for  her  amuse 
ment  Spanish  galleons,  the  domes  of  Mogul  pal 
aces,  and  a  fantastic  damsel,  that  he  called  a 
bayadere,  languishing  on  a  balcony.  His  thin, 
sallow  little  face  bent  close  to  the  printed  page,  he 
had  read  Ivanhoe  to  her.  At  parties,  it  was 
she  to  whom  he  had  brought  the  choicest  favors. 

Departing  to  school,  he  had  addressed  her  in 
melancholy  verses — doggerel  decorated  with  ref 
erences  to  flowers  turned  to  dust,  setting  suns 
that  would  never  rise  again,  countless  symbols  of 
hopeless  passion  and  impending  tragedy. 

But,  as  an  anti-climax,  he  always  showed  up 
alive  in  vacation  time. 

During  his  college  years  he  had  apparently  for 
gotten  her,  had  made  himself  conspicuous  by  some 
highly  pessimistic  theories,  and  had  tried  the  By- 
ronic  gesture.  Then,  after  Commencement,  meet 
ing  her  unexpectedly,  he  had  turned  a  yellowish 
white. 

Now  Cornelius  Bysbroek  had  become  a  lean,  neat 

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hypochondriac,  highly  cultivated,  with  fine  in 
stincts  and  excruciating  aversions,  bored  by  his 
leisure,  yet  incapable  of  action,  and  inconstant  in 
every  aspiration  except  this  love  of  his.  "When 
ever  she  refused  him  he  sailed  away,  after  threat 
ening  to  plunge  into  some  wild,  dramatic  waste, 
but  always  compromising  on  the  easiest,  beaten 
path.  He  returned  sadder  and  sallower  than  ever, 
having  contracted  in  his  imagination  some  new, 
obscure  ailment,  and  with  his  old  ailment,  his  long 
ing  for  Lilla,  still  gnawing  at  his  heart. 

But  Lilla,  so  fragile  and  moody,  dreamed  of 
physical  strength  and  a  triumphant  will. 

Where  was  he? 

She  was  enervated  by  melancholy,  scorched  by 
impatience,  then  chilled  by  an  indefinable  forebod 
ing,  just  as  her  father  had  been.  Putting  on  a 
figured  veil  to  blur  her  blush  of  shame,  she  slipped 
away  to  visit  the  soothsayers  that  fashionable 
women  patronized.  In  a  shadowy  room  hung  with 
Oriental  curtains,  the  shrewd  crystal  gazer  in 
formed  her  that  all  would  soon  be  well.  "A  great 
love  was  in  store  for  her." 

She  kept  in  her  desk  a  magazine  picture  of  Law 
rence  Teck,  the  explorer,  whom  she  had  never  met, 
but  whose  likeness,  singular  amid  innumerable  pre 
sentments  of  the  human  face,  had  arrested  her 
first  glance  and  fascinated  her  mind. 

His  aquiline  countenance,  darkened  and  corru 
gated  by  fierce  suns,  expressed  that  virility  which 

17 


SACRIFICE 

kept  driving  Mm  back,  for  his  contentment,  into 
remote  and  dangerous  places.  But  his  salient  fea 
tures  suggested  also  the  patience  and  wisdom  of 
those  who  have  suffered  hardship  and  derived  ex 
traordinary  thoughts  from  solitude.  It  pleased 
her  to  note  that  his  was  the  brow  of  a  scholar — he 
had  written  learned  volumes  about  the  jungle  peo 
ples,  was  the  most  picturesque  authority  on  the 
Islamic  world  since  Burton,  and  his  monographs 
on  African  diseases  had  added  to  his  romantic 
reputation  the  luster  of  benevolence.  She  liked  to 
picture  him  as  finding  in  his  travels  and  work  the 
stimulation  that  less  serious,  aimless  men  might 
seek  in  love. 

When  she  read  his  books,  there  unrolled  before 
her  the  esoteric  corners  of  the  desert,  the  strange 
charm  and  depravity  of  little-known  Oriental 
cities,  the  deadly  richness  of  equatorial  forests, 
peopled  by  human  beasts  whose  claws  were  ham 
mered  steel,  whose  fangs  were  poisoned  arrows, 
and  who  carried  in  their  thick  skulls  the  condensed 
miasma  of  their  hiding  places. 

She  seemed  to  see  him  passing  through  those 
physical  dangers  and  corroding  mental  influences, 
a  superior  being  of  unalterable  health  and  sanity, 
perhaps  protected  because  of  a  grand  destiny  still 
unrevealed  to  him.  She  longed  to  participate  in 
that  destiny,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  be  responsible 
somehow  for  it. 

"Where  are  you?  What  are  your  thoughts?" 

18 


SACRIFICE 

she  would  whisper,  staring  at  the  likeness  of  this 
peculiarly  congenial  stranger. 

Late  at  night,  at  that  hour  when  bizarre  fancies 
and  actions  may  seem  natural,  she  would  ask 
him: 

" Don't  you  know  that  I  exist?  Then  I  must 
make  you  know  it." 

So  she  tried  to  cast  forth  into  space  a  flood  of 
feeling  strong  enough  to  reach  him — a  projection 
of  her  identity,  her  appearance,  and  her  infatua 
tion.  All  her  secret  ardors  that  had  never  been 
so  strongly  focused  upon  a  definite  personality 
found  their  centering  point  in  him,  whose  imagined 
nature  seemed  to  be  so  emphatically  what  she 
needed  to  appease  and  complete  her  nature.  She 
was  like  one  of  those  antique  sorceresses  who 
would  cast  over  distant  hearts  the  spells  that  must 
inevitably  recoil  upon  their  makers. 

But  when  she  had  remained  for  a  long  while 
motionless  and  tense,  she  rose  wearily,  with  a  low 
laugh  of  disillusionment  and  ridicule. 

Little  by  little  her  thoughts  of  him  were  ob 
scured  by  other  thoughts,  by  weakly  apposite  con 
jectures  that  had  different  men  as  their  objects. 
And  when  different  men  made  love  to  her,  once  or 
twice,  maybe  at  a  conjunction  of  exquisite  scenery, 
music,  and  impatience,  of  confused  longings  and 
eloquent  persuasion,  she  was  tempted  to  consent. 
But  just  in  time  she  stilled  that  tremulous  smile, 

19 


SACEIFICE 

and  averted  that  dizzy  look  in  the  depths  of  which 
lurked  a  fatal  sweetness. 

Then,  when  life  seemed  to  her  unbearably 
monotonous,  she  went  to  a  week-end  party  at  the 
Brassfields '  house  in  the  country. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  Brassfields'  country  house  was  copied  from 
an  historic  French  chateau.  In  the  drawing-room, 
the  high  walls,  from  which  well-known  portraits 
stood  forth,  were  paneled  with  amber-hued  wood 
overlaid  with  elaborate  gilt  traceries ;  they  ended 
in  a  wide  golden  frieze  that  curved  inward  to  in 
close  a  ceiling  painted  with  roguish  goddesses  after 
the  manner  of  Watteau.  Here  and  there,  between 
chairs  and  sofas  the  arms  of  which  seemed  com 
posed  of  half -melted  ingots,  appeared  a  baroque 
cabinet  filled  with  small,  precious  objects.  Or 
from  a  creamy  pedestal  the  marble  features  of 
some  ancient  sybarite  regarded  without  surprise 
this  modern  richness  based  upon  the  past. 

Emerging  from  the  dining  room,  the  ladies 
crossed  the  large  amber  rug,  like  moving  images 
made  of  multicolored  light.  , 

Below  their  negligible  bodices  hung  draperies  of 
brocade  interwoven  with  metallic  threads,  of  lace 
dyed  the  colors  of  exotic  flowers,  of  tulle  embroid 
ered  with  iridescent  beads.  Parting  into  groups, 
they  dotted  the  drawing-room  with  the  gorgeous- 
ness  of  peacock  blue  and  jade  green,  the  joyous- 

21 


SACRIFICE 

ness  of  petunias  and  the  melancholy  of  orchids,  or 
the  pale,  intermelting  tints  of  rainbows  seen 
through  the  spangle  of  a  shower. 

Some,  unfurling  fans  before  their  bosoms,  sank 
down  upon  the  chairs  and  sofas.  Others  stood  be 
side  the  large  chimney  piece,  talking  to  the  men, 
and  smoking  cigarettes  that  were  thrust  into  jew 
eled  holders. 

A  few  emerged  through  the  French  windows 
upon  the  terrace  to  enjoy  the  moonlit  landscape, 
wherein  Nature  herself  had  been  taught  to  show 
a  charming  artificiality. 

An  esplanade  overlooked  an  aquatic  garden, 
with  three  pools  full  of  water  flowers  massed  round 
statues.  Below,  in  broad  stages  that  fell  away 
toward  a  wooded  valley,  lay  other  gardens,  deriv 
ing  a  vague  stateliness  from  their  successive  bal 
ustrades  and  sculptured  fountains.  The  moon 
light,  while  blanching  the  geometrical  pattern  of 
the  paths,  and  frosting  the  rectangular  flowerbeds, 
imparted  to  the  whole  surrounding,  billowing 
panorama  an  appearance  of  unreality. 

"Where's  Lilla?"  Fanny  Brassfield  inquired  of 
a  young  man  in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room, 
in  her  clear,  grating  voice  that  seemed  made  to 
express  an  involuntary  disdain  of  everything  not 
comprised  in  her  luxurious  little  world.  She  had 
just  seen  one  of  her  most  recent  lions,  old  Bran- 
tome,  on  his  way  toward  the  music  room  amid  a 
group  of  ladies ;  and  this  had  recalled  to  her  mind 

22 


SACRIFICE 

another  celebrity,  who,  five  minutes  before,  had 
arrived  from  the  city  after  she  had  given  np  ex 
pecting  him. 

' ' Shall  I  find  her?" 

" Never  mind,  my  surprise  can  wait." 

Fanny  Brassfield  followed  Brantome  and  his 
coterie  into  the  music  room,  her  attractive,  bony 
features  revealing  a  quizzical  expression.  In  the 
glitter  of  the  big  chandelier  her  coiffure  appeared 
extraordinarily  blonde,  her  green  eyes,  especially 
frosty;  and  the  eighteenth  century  ladies  in  the 
gilded  frames  seemed  suddenly,  despite  their  his 
tories,  insipid  in  comparison  with  this  modern 
face,  emancipated  from  a  thousand  traditional  re 
actions. 

As  for  Lilla,  she  was  sitting  in  the  dim  library 
with  Cornelius  Eysbroek,  who  was  harping  on  the 
old  tune. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SHE  believed  that  she  could  discern  in  him  al 
ready  the  first  hints  of  middle  age.  His  lifeless, 
brown  hair  was  receding  above  his  temples.  His 
small  mustaches,  which  ought  to  have  made  him 
debonair,  seemed  on  his  sallow  face  like  the  worth 
less  disguise  of  a  pessimist  at  the  feast  of  life. 

Her  look  of  compassion  struck  him  silent.  He 
smiled  in  self -contempt,  then  uttered  a  sharp  sigh, 
pressed  his  palm  to  his  forehead,  and  produced  a 
tiny  silver  box,  from  which  he  took  a  tablet. 

"More  antipyrene?"  she  demanded  reproach 
fully. 

"My  sinus  is  pretty  bad  to-night.  This  salt  air 
blowing  in  from  the  Sound " 

He  declared  that  he  was  going  away  again. 
"His  health  made  it  necessary."  He  had  hung 
round  New  York  long  enough,  enduring  an  im 
possible  climate  because  of  an  idiotic  hope.  He 
uttered  the  word  "Arizona."  He  spoke  of  hot 
deserts,  solitudes  under  the  stars,  mirages  less 
mocking  than  his  aspirations.  As  he  contemplated 
her  delicately  fervent  face,  her  tapering,  graceful 
body,  wrapped  like  something  very  precious  in 
pale  gold,  his  eyes  glittered  with  tears. 

24 


SACRIFICE 


'Dear  Cornie- 


And  once  more  she  began  the  familiar  rigma 
role.  Her  lips  shaped  the  immemorial  complaint, 
"Why  isn't  our  friendship  enough — why  must  we 

always   be   clouding   our   old   congeniality " 

And  so  on.  These  inexorable  words,  combined 
with  her  look  of  pity  and  reproach — a  look  that 
seemed  almost  amorous  on  her  fair  face — gave  him 
an  impression  of  immense  perfidiousness. 

He  turned  bitter.  He  asked  her  where  the 
ideal  suitor  could  be  loitering — the  strange 
knight  for  whom  she  used  to  watch  as  a  little  girl, 
the  fairytale  prince  from  another  kingdom,  who 
was  to  sweep  her  off  her  feet  by  the  force  of  his 
perfections,  and  carry  her  away. 

As  he  spoke,  there  stole  through  the  doorway 
the  first  notes  of  Vienna  Carnival.  In  the  music 
room  old  Brantome  had  been  persuaded  to  play 
Schumann. 

"I  know,  at  least,"  said  Cornelius,  "that  you 
haven't  found  him  yet!" 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  gloating  that  made  her 
again  turn  toward  him  that  unique  face  of  hers, 
whose  brownish  pallor,  in  harmony  with  her  large 
eyes  and  fluffy  hair,  appeared  to  reflect  amid  the 
shadows  the  radiance  disseminated  from  her  dress. 
In  his  unhappy  eyes  she  now  perceived  something 
that  had  not  been  there  before — a  desperation,  as 
though  his  heart  had  suffered  too  long  from  a 
sense  of  inferiority  to  the  unknown  and  unrevealed 

25 


SACRIFICE 

antagonist,  who  was  to  win  this  treasure.  For  an 
instant,  in  fact,  there  was  something  weakly  fe 
rocious,  not  quite  sane,  in  this  visage  that  had  been 
familiar  to  her  since  childhood.  Then  his  habitual, 
well-bred,  wooden  look,  as  a  door  might  shut  on  a 
glimpse  of  an  inferno. 

He  mattered,  in  his  throaty,  qneerly  didactic 
voice: 

"Well,  one  must  be  philosophical  in  this  life. 
You'll  teach  me  that,  won't  you?"  He  got  up, 
patting  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  where  he  kept 
the  little  vial  of  oil  of  peppermint,  which  he  al 
ways  touched  to  his  tongue  when  he  threw  aside 
his  cigarette  on  his  way  to  a  dancing  partner. 
"Are  they  at  it?"  he  asked,  cocking  his  ear  to 
ward  the  music  of  Schumann.  "Or  is  it  only  that 
old  chap  hammering  the  piano?" 

"Don't  ask  me  to  dance  to-night,"  she  returned, 
closing  her  eyes. 

' '  I  wasn  't. ' '  With  the  parody  of  a  merry  smile, 
lie  explained,  "You  know  I  can't  dance  with  you 
any  more.  You  know  you  make  my  legs  tremble 
like  the  devil." 

With  an  exclamation  intended  for  a  laugh, 
looking  unusually  bored  and  vacuous,  he  went  out 
of  the  room  like  a  man  in  an  earthquake  sedately 
strolling  away  between  reeling  and  crumbling 
walls. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LILLA  was  approaching  the  music  room  door 
way — round  which  some  men  were  standing  with 
the  respectful  looks  of  persons  at  the  funeral  of 
a  stranger — when  a  laughing  young  woman  inter 
cepted  her. 

"Do  come  over  here.  Madame  Zanidov  is  tell 
ing  our  fortunes." 

Anna  Petrovna  Zanidov,  one  of  the  Eussian 
aristocrats  that  the  revolution  had  scattered 
through  the  world,  was  a  thin,  black-haired  woman 
with  a  faintly  Tartar  cast  of  countenance,  a  dead- 
white  complexion  that  made  her  seem  denser  than 
ordinary  flesh,  and  somewhat  the  look  of  an  idol 
before  whose  blank  yet  sophisticated  eyes  had 
been  performed  many  extraordinary  rites.  To 
night  her  strangeness  was  made  doubly  emphatic 
by  a  gown  of  oxidized  silver  tissue  painted  over 
in  dull  colors  with  a  barbaric  design. 

She  was  said  to  be  a  clairvoyant.  Rumor  had 
it  that  she  had  foreseen  her  husband's  murder  by 
Lenin's  Mongolians,  and  that,  since  her  arrival  in 
America,  she  had  predicted  accurately  some  sensa 
tional  events,  including  a  nearly  fatal  accident  in 
the  polo  field. 

27 


SACRIFICE 

Now,  turning  her  sharp,  dead-white  profile  to 
right  and  left,  encountering  everywhere  a  frivo 
lous  eagerness,  Madame  Zanidov  protested : 

"Really,  I  ask  you  if  this  is  the  proper  atmos 
phere!" 

She  explained  that  she  regarded  very  seriously 
"this  gift"  of  hers,  which  had  astonished  people 
even  in  her  childhood.  She  agreed  that  it  was  in 
explicable,  unless  by  the  theory  that  the  future,  if 
it  did  not  already  exist,  was  at  least  somehow  pre 
figured.  Yet  she  believed  that  this  prearrange- 
ment  of  events  was  not  so  rigid  as  to  exclude  a 
certain  amount  of  free  will.  In  other  words,  one 
who  had  been  forewarned  of  a  special  result,  if  a 
special  course  were  pursued,  might  escape  the  re 
sult  by  pursuing  another  course.  "For  as  you 
know,"  she  added,  looking  round  her  at  the  women 
who  were  losing  their  smiles,  "the  impression  that 
I  receive  is  often  far  from  amusing.  How  can  one 
tell  beforehand?  So  I  consent  to  do  this  only  be 
cause,  if  what  I  see  is  unpleasant,  my  warning  may 
possibly  help  one  to  evade  it." 

A  lady  objected  that  prophecy  frequently  had 
just  the  opposite  effect.  She  referred  to  the  at 
tractive  power  of  anticipation.  Then  she  cited  in 
stances  where  persons  had  made  every  effort  to 
realize  even  the  most  unfortunate  predictions,  as  if 
hypnotized  by  their  dread  into  a  feeling  that  the 
tragic  outcome  was  inevitable.  Of  course,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  admitted,  a  happy  prediction  might 

28 


SACEIFICE 

have  a  tonic  effect,  heartening  one  to  pluck  victory 
from  apparent  failure.  Or  else,  just  by  setting  in 
action  the  magnetic  power  of  expectancy,  it  might 
even  draw  mysteriously  into  one's  life  a  wealth 
or  a  fame  that  had  seemed  unattainable,  a  love 
that  had  appeared  to  be  impossible. 

"When  she  had  voiced  this  last  opinion,  the  other 
ladies'  faces  were  softened  by  a  gentle  acquies 
cence.  Their  necklaces  flashed  with  the  rising  of 
their  bosoms;  their  heads  leaned  forward  in 
thought;  and  the  mingled  odors  of  their  perfumes 
were  like  exhalations  from  the  innermost  recesses 
of  their  hearts. 

By  this  time,  apparently,  the  proper  atmosphere 
had  been  established.  Madame  Zanidov  consented 
to  display  her  powers. 

All  the  women  drew  their  chairs  closer. 

She  took  the  hand  of  a  young  girl  whose  fea 
tures  were  alive  with  an  invincible  gay  selfishness. 
Madame  Zanidov  hardly  glanced  at  the  other's 
palm.  Closing  her  almond-shaped  eyes,  contract 
ing  her  brows,  she  let  an  unnatural  fixed  smile 
settle  upon  her  lips.  And  now,  indeed,  it  seemed 
to  them  that  some  of  the  mystery  of  Asia  had  in 
formed  her  rigid  person,  or  was  escaping,  to 
gether  with  a  thick,  sweet  scent,  from  the  folds  of 
her  metallic  and  barbarically  painted  gown. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  she  said,  without  opening 
her  eyes. 


SACRIFICE 

Even  the  girl  whose  hand  she  held  had  ceased 
to  smile. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  pervaded  by  the  faint 
harmonies  of  Vienna  Carnival. 

"For  you  have  nothing  to  fear/'  the  Russian 
quietly  announced  at  last.  "All  that  you  must 
pass  through — how  much  confusion  and  twitter  I 
am  conscious  of! — will  hardly  touch  you.  Few 
heartaches,  few  tears.  Some  day  you  will  find 
yourself  in  a  tawny  land  of  harsh  outlines :  it  is 
probably  southern  Spain.  There  you  will  meet  a 
man  as  lithe  as  a  panther,  his  shoulders  covered 
with  gold,  driving  his  sword  through  the  neck  of 
a  bull.  You  are  speaking  to  him  at  night.  He 
kisses  your  hands.  But  that,  too,  will  soon  end  in 
laughter.  You  will  marry  three  times,  but  never 
be  a  widow." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  to  gaze  thoughtfully  at 
Lilla. 

They  asked  Madame  Zanidov  if  she  really  saw 
those  things.  She  replied  that  her  perceptions 
were  at  times  exactly  like  pictures.  For  example, 
she  had  seen  the  matador's  lunge,  as  a  splendid 
plasticity  of  violet  silk  and  tinsel,  and  then  the 
bright  blood  gushing  from  the  neck  of  the  bull. 

In  subdued  voices  they  began  to  discuss  "the 
possession  of  human  beings  by  occult  forces." 
One  spoke  of  astounding  passages  set  down 
through  automatic  writing.  Another  mentioned 
psychometry.  "But  psychometrists  got  impres- 

30 


SACEIFICE 

sions  only  from  the  past!"  Whereupon  they 
stared  at  the  Russian.  Their  eyes,  which  had  been 
lightly  touched  with  a  black  pencil,  were  no  longer 
sophisticated.  Their  rouged  lips  were  relaxed  by 
that  superstitious  awe  which,  even  in  cultivated 
societies,  is  ever  waiting  to  invade  the  feminine 
mind. 

Madame  Zanidov  was  still  looking  at  Lilla. 

"Yes,"  some  one  proposed.    "Try  her." 

"She  doesn't  wish  it,"  Madame  Zanidov  re 
marked. 

But  after  a  moment  of  hesitation  Lilla  held  out 
her  hand..  Once  more  everybody  became  silent  and 
intent.  The  music  of  Schumann  softly  intruded 
into  this  stillness. 

"Ah,"  the  Russian  murmured,  "here  is  some 
thing  different." 

With  her  eyelids  pressed  together,  she  began: 

"You  are  sitting  alone.  You  are  writing  let 
ters,  which  will  pass  through  many  hands  of  dif 
ferent  colors.  One  would  think  that  those  hands 
would  grow  warm  from  touching  your  letters. 
Now  you  are  not  writing  any  more  letters.  You 
are  wearing  a  black  dress."  Madame  Zanidov 
leaned  forward  as  if  striving  with  her  closed  eyes 
to  pierce  a  sudden  opacity.  "This  is  very  odd," 
she  declared.  "I  can  see  no  more  pictures.  For 
there  is  a  darkness  which  grows  larger  and  larger, 
which  obscures  everything.  So  now  I  must  dis- 

31 


SACRIFICE 

cover  what  this  darkness  means.  Please  be  pa 
tient  for  a  few  moments." 

Some  one  whispered : 

"It's  getting  quite  uncanny." 

Lilla's  senses  reached  out  to  clench  themselves 
upon  the  normality  of  her  surroundings.  But  be 
neath  that  normality,  that  familiar  solidity,  her 
innate  mysticism,  her  instinctive  habit  of  fore 
boding,  seemed  to  perceive  a  basis  invisible  yet 
similar — a  solution,  so  to  speak,  from  which  ma 
terial  things  and  events  were  continually  being 
evolved,  the  fluid  containing  all  the  elements  of 
the  crystalization.  And  this  foreigner,  with  her 
idol-like  face  and  meager,  rigid  body,  her  aspect 
of  long  acquaintance  with  the  very  essence  of  ma 
teriality,  became  the  ageless  oracle,  the  rewarder 
of  humanity's  incorrigible  credulity.  So,  like  the 
bejeweled  princesses  in  the  Mesopotamian  tem 
ples,  the  Latin  ladies  who  had  crept  trembling  into 
the  Aventine  caves,  the  Renaissance  beauties  who, 
in  the  huts  of  witches,  had  turned  whiter  than  their 
ruffs,  Lilla  remained  motionless,  her  gaze  fixed 
apprehensively  on  the  clairvoyant. 

The  latter  said : 

"It  will  soon  be  plainer,  for  the  moon  is  rising. 
No,  what  a  nuisance !  It  is  still  very  dark,  because 
the  moonlight  is  shut  out  by  great  masses  of  fol 
iage,  great  tangles  of  vines.  Such  a  place!  Gi 
gantic  thickets,  through  which  wild  beasts  are 
prowling,  and  above  them  the  trunks  of  huge  trees. 

32 


SACRIFICE 

Wait,  I  have  found  a  path.  It  leads  to  a  clearing 
in  the  midst  of  this  forest.  Here  I  can  see  much 
better.  There  are  human  beings  here,  and  a  feel 
ing  of  sadness." 

At  a  general  stir,  one  of  the  ladies  suggested 
nervously : 

"Perhaps  you'd  better " 

But  Madame  Zanidov  was  saying: 

"The  people  in  the  clearing  are  black  savages* 
They  sit  round  a  body  that  is  stretched  on  the 
ground  and  covered  with  a  cloth.  Is  it  the  savages 
who  are  so  sad?  I  think  not.  I  cannot  describe 
the  one  who  lies  in  the  midst  of  them.  The  cloth  is 
drawn  up  to  cover  even  his  face.  But  I  feel  that 
it  is  some  one  who  has  loved  you.  He  is  dead. 
That  is  to  say,  he  will  be  dead  when  the  scene  that 
I  am  describing  is  realized;  but  now  he  is 
alive " 

Lilla,  raising  her  eyes,  saw  in  the  doorway,  with 
Fanny  Brassfield,  a  tall  man,  a  stranger,  whose 
countenance  was  aquiline  and  swarthy.  It  was 
Lawrence  Teck,  the  explorer. 


CHAPTER  VHI 

IN  the  music  room  some  musicians  were  playing 
a  waltz ;  but  Lilla  and  Lawrence  Teck  were  walk 
ing  on  the  terrace. 

She  said  to  herself,  "This  is  a  dream";  for  she 
had  come  to  believe  that  only  in  dreams  did  one 
realize,  even  in  faint  counterpart,  one's  deepest 
desires.  She  stood  still.  The  world — this  new 
world  drenched  in  an  unprecedented  quality  of 
moonlight — gradually  became  distinct.  She  gave 
him,  through  that  veil  of  silvery  beams,  a  long 
look  of  verification. 

As  in  his  picture  he  seemed  at  once  rugged  and 
fine,  resolute  and  gentle.  He  was  very  quiet,  like 
one  who  has  willed  to  be  so ;  but  a  certain  shyness 
remained  in  him,  and  presently  announced  itself 
to  her.  Whereupon,  remembering  that  she  was 
beautiful,  and  that  her  beauty  had  a  way  of  troub 
ling  men,  Lilla  felt  her  own  timidity  transmuted 
into  joy. 

"Are  your  jungles  better  than  this?"  she  asked. 

"The  charm  of  my  jungles  overlies  a  welter  of 
stupid  cruelty  and  deadly  waste.  Would  it  sur 
prise  you  to  know  that  I  should  like  to  see  all  the 
world  as  nobly  ordered  as  this  landscape?" 

34 


SACRIFICE 

She  did  not  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  words,  be 
ing  too  deeply  occupied  with  seizing  upon  those 
syllables,  those  living  tones,  and  dropping  them 
one  by  one  into  the  treasury  of  her  heart. 

Glancing  down  at  the  aquatic  garden,  he  re 
marked  : 

"These  three  basins  would  please  my  Moham 
medan  friends,  who  like  to  see  their  flowers  in 
verted  in  still  water,  like  a  mirage  come  true." 

"Yes,  no  doubt  they  have  their  ideals." 

"And  often  dream  of  them  in  very  pleasant 
places." 

He  described  certain  gardens  of  the  East.  He 
made  her  see  nests  of  color  unexpectedly  blooming 
in  the  midst  of  deserts,  behind  walls  of  sundried 
mud  overgrown  with  Persian  roses,  and  with  airy 
pavilions  mirrored  in  pools  that  were  seldom  dark 
ened  by  a  cloud.  Under  date  palms  the  white- 
robed  Arabs  sat  smoking.  From  time  to  time 
black  slaves  brought  them  coffee  flavored  with 
ambergris.  After  sundown,  at  the  hour  called 
"maghrib,"  when  the  sky  was  turning  green,  hav 
ing  performed  their  ceremonial  ablutions,  they 
prayed. 

"For  what?" 

'  *  Behind  the  formal  words  f  Who  knows  ?  For 
whatever  they  desired  most.  Probably  for  some 
thing  that  nobody  would  suspect." 

"And  the  women?"  she  ventured,  looking  at 
him  sidewise. 

35 


SACRIFICE 

In  those  remote  walled  towns  they  still  remained 
invisible.  Their  minds,  restricted  to  puerilities, 
had  never  grown  up.  Their  bodies  were  so  lax 
that  their  short  weekly  promenade  to  the  ceme 
tery  exhausted  them.  Seated  on  cushions,  they 
spent  their  time  listening  to  cuckoo  clocks  and 
music  boxes,  smelling  perfumes,  putting  their  jew 
elry  away  in  caskets,  then  bedizening  themselves 
all  over  again.  Their  servants,  who  had  known  in 
childhood  the  hurly  burly  of  caravanserais  and 
slave  markets,  told  them  of  a  world  where  every 
body  was  possessed  by  a  thousand  devils  of  in 
genuity  and  wit.  And  those  scented  ladies  with 
feeble  flesh,  hollow  eyes,  and  the  brains  of  par 
rots,  after  listening  for  a  while  in  vague  regret, 
all  at  once  became  bored.  Whereupon  they  fell 
to  playing  parchesi  and  eating  sweetmeats. 

In  such  sheltered  and  languid  lives  Lilla  seemed 
to  perceive  a  similarity  to  her  own  life.  Or,  at 
least,  she  felt  that  her  life,  if  he  knew  it  in  detail, 
would  seem  to  him  almost  as  trivial. 

"Poor  souls, "  she  said.  "But  one  surely  finds 
others  out  there,"  she  persisted,  unfurling  her 
large  fan  of  yellow  plumes,  and  looking  at  it  in 
tently.  "White  women,  for  example,  the  women 
of  the  empire  builders  ?  At  such  meetings,  in  those 
far-off  places,  romance  must  be  almost  inevitable. 
Each  finds  in  the  other  an  overwhelming  con 
geniality?  The  loneliness  round  about  exerts  a 
tremendous  persuasion?" 

36 


"Oh,  yes,"  he  assented,  with  a  smile.  "Espe 
cially  if  the  lady  smokes  a  pipe. ' ' 

He  told  her  of  an  Englishwoman  whom  he  had 
met  in  the  Masai  veldt,  hunting  for  maneless  lions 
— an  amazon  in  breeches  and  boots,  at  the  head  of 
her  own  safari.  Week  after  week  she  had  led  her 
dark-skinned  retainers  through  the  wilds,  cheerily 
doctoring  them  in  their  sicknesses,  herself  never 
ailing  or  weary.  At  the  charge  of  a  lion  she  had 
withheld  her  fire  till  the  last  possible  moment. 
By  night,  the  safari  encamped,  she  had  sat  before 
her  tent  in  a  folding  chair,  one  knee  cocked  over 
the  other,  a  pipe  between  her  teeth,  listening  to  the 
gossip  of  ragged  wanderers  who  had  been  attracted 
by  the  firelight  and  the  smell  of  burning  fat. 

"I  find  such  women  incomprehensible,"  Lilla 
declared,  with  a  profound  animosity  to  that  hunt 
ress  whose  body  was  so  strong,  whose  nerves  were 
so  sound,  whose  courage  had  been  proved  in  the 
face  of  charging  lions,  who  took  life  without  a 
twinge  and  doubtless  gloated  over  the  blood  that 
she  had  shed. 

Lawrence  Teck,  after  a  moment's  struggle  with 
himself,  blurted  out: 

"I  assure  you  that  when  we  fellows  dream  of 
women  it's  of  a  different  sort." 

"Oh,  of  course.  Of  the  one  that  you've  left  be 
hind,  I  suppose." 

Sometimes,  he  assented  presently;  in  which 
case  the  one  at  home  would  be  immensely  enriched 

37 


SACRIFICE 

by  that  wide  separation.  But  it  often  happened 
that  such  an  exile,  when  no  specially  congenial 
woman  had  given  him  her  heart,  constructed  from 
his  imagination  an  ideal,  a  vision  capable  of 
brightening  the  wilderness  with  the  most  exquisite 
charms.  Or  else  he  might  find  an  unattainable 
ideal  ready-made.  Thus  it  was  that  uncouth  sail 
ors,  on  long  voyages,  treasured  the  photographs 
of  unknown  actresses  in  fancy  costume,  as  a  re 
ligious  devotee  might  treasure  an  ikon.  Or  thus 
a  soldier  in  some  Congo  fort,  while  gradually  suc 
cumbing  to  the  malefic  spell  of  the  encircling  for 
ests,  yearned  toward  the  portrait  of  a  princess  that 
he  had  clipped  from  an  old  illustrated  magazine — 
toward  a  divinity  whom  he  could  never  know,  but 
whom  he  adored  because  her  nature  and  life  were 
so  different  from  his. 

"How  romantic  men  are!"  she  exclaimed,  turn 
ing  away  her  head. 

He  seemed  abashed ;  but  he  returned : 

"And  are  women  never  tempted  to  renounce 
that  famous  practicality  of  theirs?" 

She  walked  on  along  the  terrace.  The  moonlight 
intensified  her  ethereal  aspect ;  and  nothing  could 
have  been  more  emphatic  than  the  contrast  between 
her  seeming  fragility  and  his  apparent  strength. 

At  a  recollection  she  walked  more  and  more 
slowly,  her  pace  according  with  the  faltering  of 
her  heart  beats.  But  it  was  in  an  almost  indiffer 
ent  tone  that  she  inquired : 

38 


SACRIFICE 

"Yon  are  really  going  back  to  Africa  day  after 
to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  everything's  settled." 

She  paused,  staring  across  the  gardens,  watch 
ing  the  slow  withdrawal  from  that  scene  of  its 
peculiar  charm. 

"Why  are  you  returning?" 

He  hesitated.  Well,  he  had  reason  to  believe, 
lie  said,  that  not  far  north  of  the  Zambesi  there 
was  an  unmapped,  ruined  city  similar  to  the  stone 
city  called  Zimbabwe,  which  adventurers  from 
Phoenicia  were  supposed  to  have  built  four  thou 
sand  years  ago,  as  a  mining  town  of  the  fabled 
Land  of  Ophir.  Who  knew  what  ancient  idols, 
what  Himyarite  inscriptions,  what  trinkets  of  gold, 
might  not  be  found  there  ? 

"How  can  such  a  matter  be  important  enough 
to  make  you  risk  your  life  amid  deadly  fevers  and 
insects,  venomous  reptiles,  wild  beasts  and  wilder 
men?" 

In  that  respect  the  expedition  would  be  tame. 
The  journey  into  the  interior  would  consist  of 
undramatic  drudgeries  and  discomforts,  of  asso 
ciation  with  a  primitive  folk  whom  he  had  never 
failed  to  make  his  friends,  of  precautions  that 
would  confound  the  reptiles,  the  fevers,  and  the 
disease-bearing  insects.  As  for  the  wild  beasts, 
they  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  left  alone. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  assented,  trailing  her  fan  along 
the  balustrade,  "a  hero  must  be  modest  on  such 

39 


SACRIFICE 

points.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  an  abnormal  vanity 
that  drives  one  into  those  places,  just  in  order  that 
one  may  say,  'It's  I  who  have  found  a  new  pile 
of  ruins,  a  few  scraps  of  gold,  in  a  jungle/  " 

After  a  moment's  reflection,  he  confessed: 

"I  gave  you  my  secondary  reason,  because  I 
thought  you  might  find  it  more  interesting  than 
my  chief  one." 

It  was  true,  he  said,  that  he  hoped  to  find  a 
new  Zimbabwe  there ;  but  his  principal  task  would 
be  to  make  a  geological  survey  of  some  territory 
believed  to  be  very  rich  in  certain  minerals.  He 
was  going  for  a  group  of  capitalists  who,  if  he 
brought  back  an  encouraging  report,  would  obtain 
large  concessions  for  exploiting  the  land.  It  was 
a  gamble;  the  territory  in  question  was  virtually 
unexplored.  That  region,  moreover,  was  peopled 
by  a  tribe  opposed  to  exploitation,  and,  for  that 
matter,  even  to  visits  from  their  white-skinned 
nominal  rulers.  But  he  had  always  been  success 
ful  in  dealing  with  savages;  so,  since  this  was  to 
be  as  much  a  diplomatic  mission  as  a  geological 
survey,  he  had  seemed  the  one  for  the  task. 

From  this  explanation  she  derived  the  idea  that 
he  was  not  a  rich  man,  that  perhaps  until  recently 
he  had  never  thought  of  money  as  important,  but 
that  now,  for  some  reason,  he  had  determined  that 
his  fortune  must  be  increased. 

The  waltz  had  ended.  The  dancers  were  ap 
pearing  on  the  terrace.  Some,  descending  the 

40 


SACRIFICE 

staircases  between  the  pools,  wandered  away 
through  the  gardens.  Here  and  there  a  match 
flared  up  against  unnaturally  tinted  foliage. 
Farther  on,  a  spangled  dress  shimmered  beside 
a  fountain,  then,  accompanied  by  a  dark  shadow, 
disappeared  into  a  charmille.  A  clock  in  the  val 
ley  struck  eleven,  its  last  vibrations  mingling  with 
a  laugh  that  rose,  through  the  moonbeams,  from 
a  marble  kiosk  enveloped  in  flowers.  And  as  the 
breeze,  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  many  blos 
soms,  caressed  her  face,  Lilla  felt  that  the  gardens 
must  be  full  of  hidden  persons  each  of  whom  had 
at  last  found  the  amorous  complement. 

At  the  end  of  the  esplanade,  in  the  light  of  the 
French  windows,  Cornelius  Kysbroek's  face  ap 
peared,  then  drifted  away. 

"What  is  that  fellow's  name?"  asked  Lawrence 
Teck.  "Just  now  he  wanted  me  to  take  him  along 
to  Africa.  He  seemed  quite  unhappy,  especially 
when  I  had  to  tell  him  no.  Indeed,  he  gave  me  a 
rather  curious  impression  of  misery  and  reckless 
ness.  What  is  it?  An  unfortunate  love  affair?" 

"So  it's  that,"  she  vouchsafed,  staring  at  him 
intently,  "which  starts  men  off  to  the  wilds?" 

"Sometimes  it's  that  which  brings  them  back 
from  the  wilds.  I  could  give  you  an  instance " 

They,  too,  were  now  descending  the  steps  be 
tween  the  pools. 

The  leafy  alleys,  silvered  by  the  moon,  and  redo 
lent  of  flowers  that  had  been  made  magical  by 

41 


SACRIFICE 

the  alchemy  of  night,  surrounded  them.  They  came 
to  a  spot  where  a  circular  wall  of  foliage,  rising 
behind  stone  benches,  hemmed  in  a  fountain,  above 
which  a  marble  antique  warrior  was  lifting  in  his 
arms  a  marble  girl,  who  struggled  against  that 
seizure  with  a  convulsive  energy,  while  her  up 
turned  face  wore  a  look  of  happiness.  Lawrence 
Teck  made  the  comment : 

"It  appears  that  a  rather  primitive  Greek  gen 
tleman  has  found  a  nymph  bathing  in  a  pool.  If 
I  remember,  mortals  who  tried  to  capture  nymphs 
were  liable  to  die." 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  staring  at  the  upturned 
face  of  the  captive.  "He  should  not  have  tried." 

"But  no  doubt  it's  hard  for  them  to  be  reason 
able  at  such  times,  especially  when  the  person  that 
they  try  to  catch  seems  so  strange,  yet  so  over 
whelmingly  congenial — the  embodied  dream." 

"Then  she  should  have  prevented  him." 

"Perhaps  she  tried  to,  with  the  usual  success 
when  it's  a  question  of  love  in  opposition  to  fear." 

Lilla  turned  aside,  drawing  a  cloud  of  golden 
tulle  around  her  slender  shoulders.  "Does  that 
acuteness  also  come  to  one  in  the  jungle?"  She 
seated  herself  upon  the  nearest  stone  bench. 
"What  is  that  story  of  yours1?" 

"A  story  of  one  of  those  sentimental  exiles  and 
the  picture  of  his  ideal." 

The  man,  he  said,  had  found  the  picture  in  a 
tattered  magazine  in  the  Afrika  Hotel  at  Zanzi- 

42 


SACRIFICE 

bar.  Of  all  the  thousands  of  fair  faces  that  he 
had  seen  depicted  or  in  the  flesh,  it  was  this  face 
whose  peculiar  beauty  clutched  suddenly  at  his 
pulse.  But  it  was  not  so  much  the  physical  beauty 
that  exerted  the  spell ;  nor  was  it,  in  this  instance, 
the  attractiveness  of  the  incomprehensible.  For 
the  man  divined  from  his  contemplation  of  those 
features  the  nature  of  the  woman,  all  her  com 
plexities,  and  even  her  emotional  fragilities. 
There  came  to  him  the  well-known  conviction,  "It's 
she  that  I've  always  been  seeking."  At  dawn, 
smothering  under  his  mosquito  net,  with  the  din 
of  Arab  and  Hindu,  Masai  and  Swahili  voices 
drifting  in  through  his  shutters,  his  first  waking 
thought  was  of  her. 

He  cut  out  the  picture  and  kept  it  in  his  note 
book. 

It  was  there,  against  his  breast,  for  many 
months.  It  traveled  into  still  stranger  places.  It 
passed,  through  Gallaland  and  Abyssinia,  into  the 
country  of  the  Blue  Nile  spearmen,  across  Darfur 
and  Wadai,  where  the  Emir 's  men  rode  out  in  the 
helmets  and  chain  mail  that  their  ancestors  had 
copied  from  the  Crusaders.  It  crossed  the  Sahara, 
skirting  the  strongholds  of  the  Senussia  Brother 
hood,  penetrating  the  wastes  patrolled  by  the 
Tuaregs,  ferocious  camel  riders  whose  mouths 
were  always  muffled  in  black  bandages.  It  went 
north  to  the  steppes  of  the  Ziban,  from  which  the 
tribe  of  the  Ouled  Nail  scattered  their  feather- 

43 


SACRIFICE 

crowned  dancing  girls  from  Ceuta  to  Suez.  And 
in  the  Atlas  it  entered  the  hill  castles  of  Kabyles, 
whose  unveiled,  fierce-eyed,  red-haired  women, 
drenched  with  half  a  dozen  perfumes,  and  clat 
tering  with  silver,  coral,  turquoise  and  gold,  were 
swifter  than  snakes  with  their  knives. 

At  last  it  was  yellow  and  crinkled,  that  picture 
of  the  fair  unknown,  which  had  become  for  him, 
in  consequence  of  so  many  vivid  reveries,  like  a 
living  companion. 

There  were  days  when  he  forgot  her.  Then 
suddenly,  under  those  desert  constellations,  he  re 
membered  her  with  a  thrill.  Or  else,  before  the 
tent  of  some  nomad  sheikh,  all  at  once  she  fluttered 
from  the  notebook  to  the  silken  carpet,  on  which 
girls  with  little  brown  feet  had  just  been  making 
their  cuirasses  of  gold  coins  leap  to  the  music  of 
flageolets  and  drums. 

And  sometimes,  though  he  had  never  before 
been  superstitious,  he  felt  that  this  picture  was 
a  sort  of  amulet.  For  twice  when  he  was  in  dan 
ger,  and  there  seemed  to  be  small  hope  of  his  sur 
vival,  there  had  come  to  him  the  fortifying 
thought,  "Not  yet,  because  I  haven't  found  her  in 
reality." 

"Just  a  picture!"  Lilla  uttered,  thinking  of  an 
other  picture  that  had  been  hardly  less  potent. 

Yes,  but  when  he  returned  home,  after  a  dozen 
efforts  and  discouragements  one  day,  merely  by 
chance,  he  saw  her  alive,  breathing.  She  whirled 

44 


SACRIFICE 

past  in  a  limousine.  She  disappeared  into  the 
haze  of  a  city  street  in  summer.  Whereupon  he 
thought,  "I  was  not  mistaken;  it's  inevitable." 
He  accepted  the  fatalism  of  his  Arab  friends,  who 
believe  that  every  man's  destiny  is  fixed. 

"He  found  her  again?" 

"Finally.    There  were  difficulties." 

"And  they  were  happy  ever  after?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

She  looked  over  this  magical  garden  toward  the 
future,  which  now  appeared  like  one  of  those  des 
erts,  but  bereft  of  all  enchantment,  and  covered 
with  clouds  that  were  not  positive  enough  to  rain. 
Then,  gazing  at  the  marble  warrior  that  had  seized 
the  marble  nymph,  she  said: 

"I  suppose  it  was  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER  IX 

she  had  reached  her  room  she  stood  daz 
zled  by  the  rays  of  the  declining  moon,  and  stifled 
by  the  sweetness  of  the  night.  The  clock  in  the 
valley  struck  one,  as  if  marking  the  end  of  a  time 
that  had  been  interminable  in  its  tediousness  and 
bleakness.  In  the  mirror  she  saw  her  pale  brown 
eyes,  skin  and  tresses  invested  with  a  new  allure 
ment,  a  new  ardor. 

His  face  sprang  out  before  her — against  the 
moonlit  wall,  in  the  glazing  of  the  pictures,  on  the 
dial  of  the  clock.  She  saw  his  gray  eyes  sur 
rounded  by  the  fine  wrinkles  of  those  who  have 
peered  across  glaring  sands,  and  his  black  eye 
brows  united  above  his  aquiline  nose.  The  quali 
ties  that  made  him  her  antithesis  redoubled  his 
worth;  and  the  prestige  of  romance  clung  round 
his  head  like  a  nimbus. 

As  she  moved  to  and  fro,  the  moonbeams  fol 
lowed  her  and  embraced  her;  they  glorified  her 
slender  figure  whose  reflections  she  saw  with  a 
new  pride.  The  pale  rays  passed  through  her 
bosom,  like  a  current  from  the  fabled  regions  of 
felicity.  They  renewed  in  her  breast  that  agita- 

46 


SACRIFICE 

tion  as  if  all  her  fibers  were  emerging  from  inertia 
into  the  fullness  of  life. 

She  lay  on  her  bed  wide  eyed,  as  if  floating  in 
a  tepid  sea,  buoyed  up  by  happiness  and  wonder. 

Then  she  sat  upright,  stricken  with  terror.  She 
had  seen  a  clearing  in  a  jungle,  and  black  savages 
seated  round  a  body  covered  over  with  a  cloth. 
For  a  moment  she  thought  that  she  had  seen 
Madame  Zanidov  also,  trailing  her  barbaric  gown 
away  through  a  shaft  of  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  X 

IT  was  mid-afternoon  when  Lilla  emerged  from 
her  room. 

A  servant  informed  her  that  "everybody"  was 
motoring  or  playing  golf.  She  entered  the  library, 
lustrous  with  its  rows  of  books  and  its  deep-toned 
paintings  hung  against  wooden  panels.  Between 
half-drawn  window  curtains  passed  rays  of  sun 
shine  that  came  to  rest  upon  vases  of  flowers  ar 
ranged  in  porcelain  bowls ;  but  the  corners  of  the 
room  were  steeped  in  shadows.  A  man  who  had 
been  sitting  on  a  couch  amid  these  shadows  rose 
to  his  feet. 

She  sought  the  gloom  beyond  the  fireplace,  in 
order  that  her  changed  face  might  not  betray 
her.  But  even  here  her  paleness  was  emphasized, 
and  her  eyes,  with  faint  purple  streaks  below 
them,  took  on  a  look  of  deeper  anxiety.  Her  fea 
tures  began  to  quiver  as  if  her  soul  were  revealing 
itself  beneath  a  transparent  mask. 

"What  has  happened?" 

She  managed  to  reply: 

"A  great  mistake.  Because  that  picture  seemed 
congenial  to  you  in  those  lonely  places  you  thought 
that  the  original  must  be  the  same?  You  were 

48 


SACRIFICE 

wrong.  Physically  and  temperamentally  we  be 
long  to  different  worlds.  You  couldn't  rest  in 
mine,  and  I  couldn't  enter  yours.  If  you  knew 
me,"  she  added,  in  a  hushed  voice,  "you'd  find  me 
contemptible,  in  all  my  weaknesses. ' '  She  lowered 
her  head,  then,  raising  her  eyes,  which  were  full  of 
fear,  besought  him,  "Tear  it  out  of  your  heart! 
Destroy  it!" 

"There,  it's  done*  How  easy  it  was  to  obey 
you!" 

And  they  stood  face  to  face  in  a  pallor  that  was 
like  a  scintillation  of  white-hot  metal,  both  knowing 
that  their  lips,  though  they  uttered  first  a  thou 
sand  similar  phrases,  would  presently  be  united. 

Then  he  came  close,  catching  in  his  strong  grasp 
her  writhing  hands.  But  she  stopped  him  with  a 
look  like  a  flashing  sword — a  look  as  poignant  as 
though  they  had  been  lovers  for  years  and  now 
must  love  no  longer.  And  so,  in  fact,  they  had 
been,  heart  drawn  to  heart  by  a  strange  likeness 
of  accidental  or  of  fatal  events,  one  longing  grop 
ing  through  space  toward  another  longing.  Apart, 
just  by  aid  of  their  imaginations,  they  had  pro 
gressed  already  from  indefinite  to  precise  emo 
tions,  from  vague  to  fixed  visions,  each  attaining 
in  thought  a  consummation  that  mocked  this  pres 
ent  struggle.  And  this  profound  mutual  intimacy, 
an  accomplished  fact  in  the  realm  of  mind,  was 
suddenly  projected  into  the  physical  atmosphere, 
so  that  the  glances  of  these  two,  who  had  just  now 

49 


SACRIFICE 

met  each  other,  clashed  in  an  almost  terrible  inti 
macy,  as  though  the  question  were  not  "Never," 
but  '"Never  again." 

Wrenching  her  hands  away,  she  made  a  despair 
ing  gesture. 

"Tear  it  out,"  she  repeated.  "It's  only  by  do 
ing  so  that  you  can  please  me." 

"Will  you  help  me  to  kill  it?  Will  you  lend  a 
hand  by  making  your  beauty  hideous,  your  nature 
repulsive  1  Come  and  take  a  drive  with  me.  Just 
an  hour  or  two.  How  long  do  you  need  to  destroy 
it?" 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  closing  her  eyes  in  pain. 

In  a  broad-brimmed  hat  that  matched  her  muslin 
gown  she  went  down  the  steps  to  his  car.  The 
high,  gray  walls  of  the  house  disappeared  behind 
a  rush  of  trees;  the  conical  turret  roofs  of  slate 
sank  quickly  away. 

From  the  terrace  Cornelius  Eysbroek  stared  at 
the  distant  gateway  through  which  they  had  van 
ished. 

The  car  rushed  through  the  countryside.  The 
orderly  fields  stretched  away  toward  gentle  slopes 
on  which  cows  were  grazing.  Here  and  there  a  vil 
lage  abruptly  spread  out  its  roofs,  which  rotated 
on  the  axis  of  a  spire.  All  the  windows  gave  back 
the  light  of  late  afternoon ;  and  far  off,  against  a 
hollow  between  two  hills,  like  wine  in  a  cup,  there 
was  a  ruddy  flash  of  water.  It  was  the  Sound; 
and  beyond  the  Sound  lay  the  sea.  ' 

50 


SACRIFICE 

A  clond  covered  the  setting  sun.: 

"So  yon  pretend  to  begrudge  me  this  perfected 
feeling,  this  verification,  that  I'll  carry  back  with 
me!" 

He  told  her  that  over  there  he  would  build  a 
perfect  similacrum  of  her  out  of  his  thoughts,  as 
an  enchanter  might  form  at  will  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  the  likeness  of  some  one  who  was  far 
away.  "You  shall  even  move  and  speak,"  he  pre 
dicted,  "and  I'll  make  your  glances  and  your 
words  whatever  I  want  them  to  be.  Look  out  for 
yourself!  That  is  sorcery.  I  shall  have  taken  a 
part  of  you  away  from  yourself,  across  the  ocean, 
to  Africa  where  the  forests  are  full  of  magicians. 
Over  here  you'll  no  longer  be  complete.  You'll 
turn  your  eyes  southeast  with  a  sense  of  missing 
something  from  your  heart." 

He  gazed  ahead  at  the  road  that  the  car  was 
devouring  with  an  endless  purr  of  triumph.  He 
pursued  his  fancy,  while  the  car  pursued  the  glim 
mer  of  the  Sound,  which  was  escaping  amid  the 
first  thin  veils  of  the  twilight. 

He  promised  that  she,  to  whom  everything  un 
couth  and  primitive  was  repugnant,  would  smile 
beside  him  in  those  equatorial  tangles,  or,  at  any 
rate,  that  she  would  do  so  in  his  dream  of  her. 
In  the  camp  surrounded  by  a  hedge  of  thorns,  in 
the  firelight  flickering  on  the  shoulder  blades  and 
teeth  of  the  negroes,  the  wraith  of  her  living  self 
would  sit  at  his  side,  radiant  in  the  dress  that  she 

51 


SACRIFICE 

had  worn  last  night.  "Real  as  you'll  seem  to  me," 
he  said,  "I  sha'n't  have  to  worry  about  the  striped 
mosquitoes  stinging  you  on  the  shoulders;  and 
when  we  others  go  plodding  along,  no  helmet  or 
terai  need  hide  that  hair  of  yours.  Since  you'll 
be  made  of  my  thoughts,  you'll  be  invulnerable. 
You'll  catch  up  your  little  train  to  run  across  a 
field  of  ferns  in  pursuit  of  some  small,  inquisitive 
wild  beast.  When  tKe  tribes  make  dances  for  us, 
they  won't  know  that  a  beautiful  white  lady,  in  a 
golden  decollete  gown,  is  seated  before  them,  as 
happy  as  if  that  hullabaloo  were  a  ballet  by  Stra 
vinsky." 

In  the  twilight,  by  a  road  hemmed  in  with 
sumac,  they  came  to  a  small,  rustic  restaurant, 
which  perched  on  a  cliff  above  the  waters  of  the 
Sound.  An  old  waiter  led  them  between  empty 
tables  to  a  veranda  overlooking  the  waves.  He 
seated  them  by  the  railing,  along  which  trailed  a 
honeysuckle  vine. 

They  had  come  for  tea  or  for  dinner  ? 

"Dinner!"  exclaimed  Lawrence.  "Here,  take 
this,  and  carry  your  sane  and  practical  face  away. 
Wait,  you  might  bring  us  some  tea."  He  reached 
across  the  table  to  feel  her  hand,  which  was  as 
cold  as  ice.  "I've  frozen  you!" 

"No,"  she  returned,  almost  inaudibly. 

The  odor  of  the  honeysuckle  was  mingled  with 
the  smell  of  the  sea.  The  old  waiter  came  and 
departed  like  a  shade.  They  were  alone  on  the 

52 


SACRIFICE 

veranda,  above  the  waves  over  which  the  rising 
moon  had  just  thrown  a  silver  net. 

But  it  was  a  beam  of  light  from  the  doorway 
that  illuminated  the  angles  of  his  face,  at  which 
she  looked  with  a  sensation  of  faintness.  She  bent 
her  neck ;  her  hat  brim  concealed  her  eyes. 

By  this  time  to-morrow! 

"Let  me  hear  your  voice,"  he  pleaded.  "At 
least  I'll  fill  my  mind  with  those  tones;  and  when 
I'm  alone  I  can  put  them  together  into  the  words, 
1 1  love  you. ' 

As  if  conjured  up  by  this  utterance,  a  breeze 
swept  over  them,  full  of  the  fragrance  of  honey 
suckle  and  the  acridity  of  the  sea,  like  the  immense, 
soft  breath  with  which  nature  blows  upon  the 
kindled  human  heart,  fanning  it  into  a  sudden  con 
flagration.  And  the  rustling  of  the  vines,  together 
with  the  murmur  of  the  water,  expanded  into  a 
sigh  which  seemed  to  issue  from  the  multitude  of 
lovers  who  somewhere — everywhere — at  that  mo 
ment,  were  swaying  toward  the  irresistible  em 
brace;  and  from  the  innumerable  flowers  of  the 
earth,  in  the  act  of  relinquishing  the  sweetness  be 
loved  by  bees ;  and,  indeed,  from  that  whole  spread 
of  mortal  consciousness  which  nature,  moved  by  a 
supreme  necessity,  has  subjected  to  this  world 
wide  tyranny. 

She  lifted  her  head  as  if  striving  to  rise  above 
that  smothering  flood,  and  in  the  moonlight  her 
face  was  revealed  to  him — her  eyes  humid,  her  lips 

53 


SACRIFICE 

twisted  into  an  unprecedented  shape,  her  whole 
aspect,  in  its  startling  maturity,  like  that  of  the 
immortal  goddess  whose  genius  and  nature  had 
suddenly  possessed  this  flesh  and  blood. 

Rising,  she  turned  away  in  a  movement  of  denial 
that  came  too  late.  He  followed  her  to  the  end  of 
the  veranda;  and  there  at  last — or,  as  it  seemed 
to  them,  again — he  took  her  in  his  arms.  For  an 
instant  her  averted  face  imitated  the  marble 
nymph's  face,  her  slender  and  flexible  body  the 
nymph's  struggling  body,  before  she  became  limp 
at  his  kiss. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  dining  room  she  paused 
to  look  back  at  the  veranda.  She  wanted  to  re 
member  every  arabesque  that  the  vines  were 
tracing  in  silhouette  against  the  moonlit  sea;  but 
she  could  not  see  anything  distinctly.  As  she  left 
the  restaurant  some  one  presented  her  with  a  little 
bunch  of  flowers. 

It  was  her  wedding  bouquet. 

They  were  married  in  a  village  rectory.  The 
minister,  peering  over  his  horn-rimmed  spectacles, 
stood  before  a  mantelpiece  on  which  a  black  mar 
ble  clock  was  flanked  by  clusters  of  wax  fruit  under 
glass. 

Lilla  borrowed  a  cloak  from  the  minister's  wife, 
and  Lawrence  drove  straight  to  New  York, 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHE  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  living  room 
wearing  a  white  burnoose,  her  pale  brown  hair 
canght  up  in  a  loose  knot,  her  feet  thrust  into  yel 
low  Moorish  slippers  mnch  too  large  for  her.  In 
the  thin  morning  sunlight  Lawrence,  dressed  for 
his  journey,  was  locking  a  metal  trunk.  Lilla 
sat  doAvn  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  clock. 

The  furniture  of  the  living  room,  gathered  from 
various  parts  of  the  Mohammedan  world,  was 
carved  and  inlaid.  In  the  corners  long-barreled 
muskets,  with  stocks  of  mother  of  pearl,  flanked 
cabinets  full  of  brittle  copies  of  the  Koran,  witch 
doctors '  switches,  and  outlandish  fetishes.  Above 
these  objects  there  dangled  from  the  molding  the 
cagelike  silver  head  armor  of  the  Wadai  cavalry 
horses,  the  tassels  of  Algerian  marriage  palan 
quins,  oval  shields  of  bullock-hide  and  bucklers  of 
hammered  brass,  crude  drums  and  harps  from 
Uganda.  On  the  four  walls,  against  pieces  of  red 
dish  bark  cloth,  gleamed  savage  weapons  arranged 
in  circular  trophies — the  war  spears  of  the  Wa- 
nandi,  the  swords  of  the  Masai,  the  bows  and  pois 
oned  arrows  of  the  Wakamba,  besides  jeweled 

55 


SACRIFICE 

yataghans,  scimitars  with  gilded  hilts,  and  damas 
cened  pistols.  Over  the  bookcases — which  were 
crammed  full  of  heavy  volumes,  portfolios,  and 
maps — appeared  framed  photographs ;  among  the 
likenesses  of  Europeans  in  duck  tunics  one  saw  the 
visages  of  Egyptians,  Persians,  and  Arabs,  or 
some  ghastly  black  apparition  daubed  with  white 
paint  and  crowned  with  a  shako  of  squirrel  fur 
and  plumes. 

In  the  air  there  was  a  faint  odor  of  skins,  dried 
herbs,  sandalwood,  and  camphor.  But  on  the  cen 
ter  table,  in  a  large  African  gourd  that  had  been 
polished  till  it  looked  like  porcelain,  stood  the  lit 
tle  bouquet  that  some  one  had  presented  to  her  at 
the  restaurant. 

These  flowers,  because  neither  he  nor  she  had 
thought  to  give  them  water,  were  already  faded. 

"Have  you  telephoned  to  the  Brassfields  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile,  "and  caused 
quite  a  sensation. " 

A  small,  wiry,  middle-aged  man,  with  an  hon 
est,  lantern-jawed  face,  entered  the  living  room 
bearing  a  breakfast  tray.  After  one  glance,  keep 
ing  his  eyes  cast  down,  he  bowed  respectfully. 

He  was  Parr,  Lawrence  Teck's  valet  in  Amer 
ica  and  right-hand  man  in  Africa. 

"With  her  head  bent  forward,  she  stared  at 
some  petals  that  had  fallen  from  the  gourd.  Her 
neck  rose  from  the  white  burnoose  in  a  curve  of 
the  palest  amber;  her  delicate  lips  were  parted; 

56 


SACRIFICE 

her  loosened  tresses  were  filled  with  the  feeble 
sunshine.  She  seemed  to  symbolize  quiet.  But 
when  the  telephone  bell  rang  she  started  violently. 

It  was  a  call  from  Long  Island,  where  Aunt 
Althea  Balbian  was  summering.  The  servants  had 
learned  of  Lilla's  whereabouts  from  the  Brass- 
fields.  Aunt  Althea  had  fallen  seriously  ill  in  the 
night. 

Parr  showed  his  downcast  eyelids  and  lantern 
jaws  in  the  doorway. 

"A  maid  is  here  from  madam's  house  down 
town  with  a  steamer  trunk  and  three  suitcases. " 

"Tell  her  to  take  them  back,"  Lilla  said  in  a 
muffled  voice. 

She  had  planned  to  go  as  far  as  London  with 
Lawrence. 

She  went  to  a  bookcase,  knelt  down,  and  scanned 
the  titles  of  the  books. 

"I  shall  read  these,"  she  murmured.  "I  shall 
take  them  home  with  me,  stack  by  stack,  and  read 
them  all.  At  night  I  '11  read  the  ones  that  are  worn 
from  your  hands,  the  dog-eared  ones  full  of  pen 
cil  marks.  Show  me  those  that  you  care  for 
most.  Have  you  any  little  book  that's  gone  with 
you  everywhere,  that 's  shabby  from  your  constant 
use  ?  I  want  to  keep  it  in  my  handbag  in  the  day 
time  and  under  my  pillow  at  night." 

He  turned  away  to  the  window.  She  sat  on  her 
heels  before  the  bookcase,  the  white  folds  of  the 
burnoose  flowing  out  round  her,  her  fragile  hands 

57 


SACRIFICE 

in  her  lap,  her  soft  palms  upturned,  her  fluffy  hair 
trailing  down  to  frame  her  sad  face. 

She  continued : 

"Don't  forget  to  leave  me  the  key.  There  will 
always  be  flowers  here ;  but  the  moment  they  fade 
fresh  ones  will  take  their  place.  What  chair  do 
you  like  to  sit  in  f  On  winter  nights  I  '11  come  here, 
and  draw  your  favorite  chair  toward  the  fire,  and 
sit  opposite.  I  won't  let  these  cruel  weapons, 
these  hideous  painted  faces,  frighten  me.  I'll  tell 
myself  that  nothing  can  prevent  us  from  being  to 
gether  again.  Yes,"  she  declared,  in  a  deadened 
voice,  "my  thoughts  are  going  to  form  armor 
round  you.  Just  wait!  When  you're  alone  out 
there,  and  everything's  silent,  you'll  wonder  what 
it  is  that  makes  the  air  round  you  electric.  It  will 
be  my  thoughts  of  you." 

The  clock  struck  the  hour.  She  rose ;  but  at  the 
doorway  she  paused,  drooping  and  tremulous,  so 
that  he  could  take  her  in  his  arms  again.  Her 
head  sank  back ;  her  curling  lashes  veiled  her  eyes, 
and  a  sob,  swelling  her  throat,  escaped  through 
her  quivering  lips.  Her  knees  bent,  and  with  a 
look  of  anguish  she  cried  distractedly : 

"Good-by!    Good-by!" 

She  believed  that  her  heart  had  stopped  beating. 

She  was  in  the  bedroom,  lying  on  the  couch 
spread  over  with  a  leopard  skin.  He  was  sitting 
beside  her.  His  face  expressed  alarm;  for  she 
shivered  convulsively,  turning  her  head  from  side 

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SACRIFICE 

to  side,  and  biting  her  lips.  He  urged  her  to  have 
courage. 

* '  Courage !   When  I  shall  never  see  you  again  f ' ' 

"What  an  idea!" 

She  touched  his  dark  cheek  with  her  fingers  on 
which  the  nails  were  like  gems.  Her  eyes,  extraor 
dinarily  enlarged,  and  swimming  in  a  mournful 
tenderness,  regarded  his  face,  as  if  striving  to 
impress  it  forever  upon  her  mind. 

"Give  it  up,"  she  pleaded  once  more.  "Don't 
scorn  my  intuition." 

"It's  necessary,"  he  said.  "More  so  now  than 
ever. ' ' 

"Money!  As  if  there  were  no  other  way!  And 
even  if  there  weren't " 

Parr  knocked  on  the  door. 

"Shall  I  call  the  taxi,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

Lying  motionless,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  she  fal 
tered  : 

"All  right.    I'll  dress." 

But  she  could  hardly  drag  herself  to  her  feet. 

As  she  pinned  on  her  hat  she  longed  for  a  veil, 
such  a  heavily  figured  veil  as  she  had  put  on  when 
setting  out  to  the  fortune  teller's,  who  had  said,  "A 
great  love  is  in  store  for  you."  "How  dreadfully 
I  look!  This  is  the  picture  of  me  that  he  must 
take  away  with  him. ' '  She  entered  the  living  room 
as  Parr  and  the  taxi  driver  were  carrying  out  the 
valises.  She  took  a  flower  from  the  gourd.  A 

59 


SACRIFICE 

petal  fell  off;  and  the  taxi  driver,  brushing  past 
her,  ground  it  into  the  rug. 

In  the  outer  corridor,  which  she  did  not  remem 
ber  having  passed  through  last  night,  she  held  out 
her  hand.  Lawrence  gave  her  the  key ;  she  slipped 
it  down  the  neck  of  her  muslin  frock,  and  it  struck 
a  chill  through  her  bosom. 

When  the  ship  had  carried  him  away  she  re 
turned  uptown  and  took  a  train  for  Long  Island. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

AUNT  ALTHEA  lay  in  a  four-post  bed  near  a  win 
dow  through  which  she  might  see  the  sunshine 
resting  on  the  small  Italian  garden.  Her  colorless 
face  was  stamped  with  a  look  of  almost  infantile 
acquiescence,  though  it  was  only  three  days  since 
she  had  sat  out  there  in  the  garden,  thinking: 

"When  Lilla  comes  back  I'll  ask  her  whether 
she  wouldn  't  like  a  little  run  over  to  Home,  before 
the  season  sets  in." 

The  sick  woman  fell  asleep.  Her  hair  appeared 
grayer,  her  skin  more  nearly  transparent,  than 
ordinarily.  All  her  various  ardors  had  not  slipped 
away  from  her  without  leaving  on  her  countenance 
the  marks  of  their  transmutation,  a  peculiar  no 
bility  that  owed  half  its  fineness  to  unacknowl 
edged  suffering. 

In  the  night  the  nurse  decided  to  wake  the 
physician,  who  was  dozing  in  one  of  the  guest 
rooms.  Aunt  Althea  had  conquered  time,  had  re 
gained  her  "beloved  Europe."  Somewhere  in  the 
New  York  house  there  was  a  photograph  of  her, 
taken  in  her  twenty-fifth  year.  She,  too,  it  seemed, 
had  once  been  charming,  full  of  young  grace  and 

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SACRIFICE 

eager  expectancy.  And  now  she  was  in  her 
twenty-fifth  year  again,  and  driving  through  Rome 
to  the  English  cemetery.  She  reached  it.  She  met 
some  one  there,  to  whom  she  spoke  in  Italian.  It 
was  a  rendezvous  of  lovers.  And  Lilla  heard  the 
sigh: 

* '  Don 't  go.    Don 't  smile  at  my  intuition " 

Later,  after  seeming  to  listen  intently,  'Aunt 
Althea  cried: 

"What  are  they  calling?  All  massacre'd  at 
Adowa ! ' '  She  uttered  a  moan, ' '  I  knew  it ! " 

To  the  doctor's  surprise  she  lived  through  the 
following  day.  By  evening  everybody  had  become 
hopeful  of  her  recovery.  Aunt  Althea,  turning 
her  faded,  aristocratic  head  on  the  pillow,  said: 

"You  must  go  and  rest,  Lilla.  I  shall  be  all 
right  now.  How  badly  you  look!  How  I  must 
have  worried  you!  They  shouldn't  have  spoiled 
your  party.  You  see  it  wasn't  worth  while." 

She  passed  away  at  dawn. 

It  was  a  morning  of  unusual  brightness.  A 
high  wind  caught  up  and  scattered  broadcast  the 
petals  from  the  Italian  garden,  as  though  that 
spot  had  served  its  only  purpose.  Now  and  then 
a  swift  cloud  cast  a  shadow  over  the  landscape, 
then  passed  on,  leaving  everything  as  brilliant  as 
before.  The  boughs  of  the  trees  tapped  urgently 
against  the  windowpanes,  calling  attention  to  the 
sparkling  clarity  of  space.  And  Lilla,  sitting  alone 

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SACRIFICE 

in  her  room,  wondered,  "Will  she  meet  him  out 
there?  Does  fate  finally  relent?  Or  are  those 
moments  that  she  had  with  him — so  few,  while 
others  are  allowed  so  many! — supposed  to  be 
enough  happiness  for  her?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FOR  a  while  Lilla  remained  in  the  house  on  Long 
Island. 

She  sat  in  the  pergola  holding  on  her  lap  a 
closed  book,  between  the  pages  of  which  she  kept 
Lawrence's  cablegrams  and  letters  from  London. 
Toward  sunset  she  rose  and  went  down  across  the 
meadow  to  the  brook,  where  some  willows  leaned 
over  the  water.  As  the  twilight  gathered,  a  smell 
of  wood  smoke  made  her  think  of  camp  fires ;  and 
casting  a  look  around  her  at  the  suave  landscape 
she  tried  to  picture  the  jungle. 

Then,  when  she  recalled  their  brief  hours  to 
gether,  a  filmy  curtain  appeared  to  ascend  before 
her  eyes ;  and  that  relationship,  which  because  of 
her  profound,  psychic  agitation  had  been  almost 
dreamlike  while  in  progress,  assumed  a  perfect 
clarity,  a  new  value.  And  now,  with  the  dissipa 
tion  of  that  haze  cast  over  all  her  senses  by  his 
nearness,  she  perceived  him,  himself,  far  more 
distinctly  than  when  he  had  been  with  her. 

"  Ah,  what  was  I  thinking  of  to  let  him  go !" 

She  felt  that  another  woman,  not  cursed  with 
her  ineptitude  in  that  crisis,  would  have  held  him 
back. 

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SACRIFICE 

"But  you  were  cruel  enough  not  to  give  up  go 
ing  of  your  own  accord,"  she  sighed  in  the  twi 
light.  And,  turning  wearily  back  toward  the 
house,  she  reflected  that  if  she  had  been  fatally 
weak  he  had  been  fatally  strong,  and  that,  after 
all,  those  two  antithetical  defects  were  strangely 
similar. 

When  she  was  most  gloomy,  Fanny  Brassfield 
came  to  visit  her  for  a  few  days. 

That  vigorous  blonde  woman,  ruddy  from  golf 
and  thin  from  horseback  riding,  with  calm  nerves 
and  an  endless  fund  of  gossip,  brought  a  vital 
thrill  into  the  Long  Island  house.  Yet  to  Lilla 
this  very  vigor  was  oppressive  instead  of  tonic; 
and  resentment  came  over  her  as  she  scrutinized 
her  friend's  satirical  face,  which  seemed  to  typify 
all  the  women  who  progressed  successfully  through 
life,  as  if  their  natures,  victoriously  adamantine, 
had  bestowed  upon  them  this  brilliant  hardness 
of  complexion,  this  sophisticated,  frosty,  conquer 
ing  glance.  Lucky  women,  who  were  so  emphati 
cally  of  the  same  essence  as  the  phenomena  round 
them,  who  accepted  life  with  the  simplicity  of 
natural  creatures,  who  never  saw,  beneath  the 
pageantry  of  these  appearances,  a  peeping  horror 
that  cast  one  down  from  joy  to  despair!  Even 
death  seemed  natural  to  them,  apparently,  so  long 
as  they  themselves  escaped  its  touch. 

"One  must  resign  oneself  to  all  these  things, " 
said  Fanny,  in  her  clear,  loud  voice.  "One  must 

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SACRIFICE 

learn  to  rise  above  them.  These  periods  of  mourn 
ing  are  really  a  mistake.  All  this  sitting  still, 
dressed  in  black !  One  takes  medicine  when  one  Js 
ill.  A  dose  of  pleasure  ought  to  be  the  prescrip 
tion  when  one's  sad." 

She  added  that  physical  exercise  was  also  very 
important. 

In  a  striped  woolen  sports  suit,  a  felt  hat  turned 
over  one  ear  and  a  walking  stick  in  her  hand, 
Fanny  Brassfield  presented  herself  at  Lilla 's  bed 
side  while  the  garden  was  still  full  of  mist.  She 
prescribed,  on  this  occasion,  a  walk  before  break 
fast. 

They  trudged  through  bypaths  where  tHe  bushes 
were  gemmed  with  dew.  From  a  wooded  hilltop 
they  saw,  gliding  along  the  highway,  the  cars  of 
men  who  were  bound  for  their  safe  occupations  in 
the  city. 

Lilla  regained  the  house  exhausted,  pale  from 
fatigue,  while  Fanny  Brassfield  seemed  bursting 
with  energy. 

In  the  evening  time  began  to  hang  rather  heavily 
for  Fanny.  She  persuaded  Lilla  to  play  the  piano 
for  her.  Then  she  glanced  over  the  books  in  which 
the  paragraphs  were  shortest,  ran  through  a  few 
magazines,  kicked  off  her  slippers,  put  her  feet 
on  a  stool,  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  fell  back  upon 
gossip.  Madame  Zanidov  was  now  visiting  in 
Maine.  Cornelius  Rysbroek  had  gone  to  Mexico. 

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SACRIFICE 

''Mexico!  Aren't  things  rather  unsettled 
there?" 

"Perhaps  he's  gone  where  things  are  unsettled 
because  everything  is  too  much  settled  here,"  re 
plied  Fanny,  with  her  satirical  smile. 

"ButCornie!" 

"Oh,"  said  Fanny,  luxuriously  stretching  her 
self  like  a  cat  that  needs  exercise,  "if  one  of  these 
timid  souls  is  hit  hard  enough,  there's  no  telling 
what  he'll  do." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BEFORE  the  end  of  summer  Lilla  returned  to  the 
house  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue. 

In  the  hall  paved  with  black  and  white  tiles,  the 
chasteness  of  the  ivory-colored  wainscot  set  off 
two  stately  consoles,  on  which  lamps  with  cylindri 
cal  shades  of  painted  parchment  were  reflected  in 
antique  mirrors.  The  drawing-room  furniture, 
from  the  eighteenth  century,  displayed  its  discreet 
elegance  against  the  sage  green  walls  and  the  for 
mal  folds  of  the  mulberry-colored  curtains ;  while 
over  the  chimney  piece,  which  was  ornamented 
with  three  vases  of  the  Renaissance  in  silver  gilt, 
a  painting  by  Bronzino  focused  the  gaze  upon  a 
triumph  of  romance  over  formality.  This  paint 
ing,  in  this  room,  was  like  a  gesture  of  Aunt  Al- 
thea's  real  self. 

"How  well  she  kept  her  secret,"  Lilla  thought. 
"She  was  rather  heroic,  it  seems." 

And  she  felt  as  surprised  a  sadness  as  though 
she  were  the  first  who  had  not  quite  appreciated 
the  departed. 

"The  departed!" 

The  prophecy  of  Madame  Zanidov — "that  in- 

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SACRIFICE 

credible  balderdash ! ' ' — even  woke  her  in  the  night. 

She  discovered  the  date  of  Lawrence's  birth, 
then  went  to  a  woman  with  birdlike  eyes,  who  was 
seated  behind  a  table  on  which  stood  some  little 
Hindu  idols  and  a  vase  of  gilded  lotus  buds.  The 
astrologer,  when  she  had  made  some  marks  on  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  had  added  up  some  figures, 
confessed  that  "these  next  few  months  were  going 
to  be  a  critical  time  for  him."  "You  see,  here  are 
Saturn  and  Uranus " 

Emerging  from  the  sanctum,  Lilla  felt  the  pave 
ment  move  beneath  her  feet. 

Presently  she  sought  out  the  teachers  of  New 
Thought,  whose  faces  were  as  serene  as  though 
they  had  found  a  talisman  by  which  death  itself 
might  be  vanquished.  They  calmed  her  with  be 
nignant  smiles,  then  informed  her  that  fear  was 
as  potent  in  bringing  about  disaster  as  optimism 
was  in  preventing  it.  In  those  consultation  rooms, 
where  the  walls  were  dotted — rather  unnecessar 
ily,  it  seemed  to  Lilla — with  mottoes  exhorting 
her  to  love,  they  gave  her  the  recipe  in  gentle 
voices  that  were  nearly  lyrical.  But  gradually  she 
got  the  idea  that  they  were  speaking  to  her  in  a 
foreign  language.  Drowsiness  assailed  her,  as 
though  a  malignant  power,  determined  that  she 
should  not  gain  this  peace,  had  cast  over  her  a 
spell  of  mental  lethargy. 

Nevertheless,  she  persisted.  In  the  bookshops 
the  customers  turned  to  regard  this  tall  beauty 

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SACRIFICE 

clad  in  black,  who,  with  a  mournful  eagerness, 
leaned  over  the  counters  devoted  to  "inspirational 
literature." 

One  rainy  afternoon  she  threw  those  books  aside 
and  went  to  church. 

Here  was  an  awesomeness  appropriate  to  a  mor 
tal  conception  of  God — a  distant  glitter  of  candles 
beyond  colossal  pillars,  a  fragrance  of  stale  in 
cense,  a  silence  in  which  the  shadowy  crimson  of 
banners,  suspended  high  in  the  nave,  was  like  a 
soft  blaring  of  celestial  trumpets.  Exaltation  took 
hold  of  her  as  she  recalled  the  miracles  of  ortho 
dox  faith  and  the  eternal  promise  of  compassion. 

She  prayed  for  a  long  while,  lost  in  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  incense,  her  heart  quivering  from  the 
memory  of  her  few  hours  of  love. 

Whenever  she  received  a  letter  from  him  she 
tore  open  the  envelope  with  one  movement,  and 
pressed  against  her  face  those  crackling  sheets  of 
paper  that  seemed  to  exhale  the  odor  of  a  far-off 
land.  He  had  written  it  in  the  wilds,  before  his 
tent,  while  a  naked  black  messenger  stood  waiting. 
The  letter  sealed,  the  messenger  had  stuck  it  into 
a  split  wand,  and  straightway  had  set  off  at  a  trot 
toward  the  coast. 

Now  she  wanted  to  know  precisely  what  his  sur 
roundings  looked  like.  When  she  had  pored  over 
the  map  she  collected  all  the  books  about  that  re 
gion. 

70 


SACRIFICE 

She  was  surprised  to  find  it  impregnated  with 
romance. 

It  was  the  "Eldorado"  of  remote  antiquity. 
Thither,  in  the  dawn  of  recorded  history,  had 
gone  the  Phoenician  galleys,  full  of  hook-nosed  men 
in  purple  and  brass,  their  beards  scented  with 
spikenard.  From  the  mining  towns  that  they  built 
in  the  jungle,  surrounded  by  cyclopean  walls  and 
adorned  with  grotesque  stone  images,  came  the 
stores  of  gold  with  which  the  Sidonians  enriched 
King  Solomon.  To-day  all  those  workings  were 
apparently  exhausted.  The  Zimbabwe — the  cities 
of  stone— had  crumbled ;  the  jungle  had  closed  in ; 
and  in  that  wilderness  only  a  heap  of  rubble,  or 
the  choked  mouth  of  a  pit,  remained  here  and  there 
to  mark  the  source  of  the  metal  that  had  gilded  the 
temple  at  Jerusalem,  and  the  Semitic  shrines  to 
Baal  and  Astoreth. 

But  a  new  letter  told  her  that  he  had  crossed  the 
Zambesi. 

He  had  gone  into  a  land  almost  wholly  unex 
plored  by  its  present  claimants,  full  of  fever-breed 
ing  marshes,  barren  mountain  gorges,  and  great 
forests.  The  inhabitants  were  an  unconquered 
race  of  warriors  called  the  Mambava,  fiercer  than 
the  lions  and  leopards  about  them,  hostile  to 
strangers,  and  given  to  uncanny  customs.  They 
worshipped  among  other  things — perhaps  in  con 
sequence  of  the  old  Phoenican  occupation — the 
moon.  At  certain  periods  of  the  year  their  forests 

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SACRIFICE 

thundered  with  the  music  of  drums;  their  towns 
were  deserted  except  for  the  women  and  children. 
Then  the  stranger  who  had  ventured  into  their 
country  might  see,  from  his  hiding  place,  hordes  of 
black  men  moving  to  a  secret  rendezvous,  their 
painted  faces  framed  in  monkey  hair,  their  limbs 
covered  with  amulets,  their  shields  rising  in  time 
to  an  interminable  chanting  in  a  minor  key. 

Sometimes,  in  the  corridor  outside  the  door  of 
Lawrence's  rooms,  she  encountered  a  small,  dap 
per  young  man  with  an  inquisitive  face,  who  lived 
on  the  floor  above.  He  usually  carried  under  his 
arm  a  leather  portfolio.  Nothing  could  have  been 
more  interested  than  his  look  when  he  passed  this 
sad-eyed  woman  in  mourning,  whose  identity  and 
story  he  had  learned  from  the  janitor. 

When  she  had  shut  the  living-room  door  behind 
her,  for  a  moment  she  closed  her  eyes  in  order 
that  she  might  not  see  the  weapons  on  the  walls. 
Then  she  kindled  the  fire.  The  blazing  logs  sent 
over  her  a  wave  of  heat;  but  she  shivered  while 
listening  to  the  sound  of  sleet  on  the  glass. 

' '  He  might  be  here  with  me.  We  might  have  felt 
together  the  security  and  peace  of  this  warm  room, 
and  laughed  at  the  storm  outside." 

One  evening  she  ripped  from  their  frames  the 
photographs  of  savages  smeared  with  white  paint 
and  crowned  with  fur  and  feathers.  She  threw 
them  into  the  fire.  As  the  flames  consumed  them, 
she  leaned  forward  like  those  who  try  to  annihi- 

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SACRIFICE 

late  their  enemies  by  destroying  their  likenesses. 

For  a  long  while  she  sat  beside  the  empty  chair, 
shading  her  eyes  from  the  blaze  with  a  trans 
lucent  hand.  But  suddenly  she  stood  up,  tense  and 
quaking.  Her  dilated  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  point 
in  space,  from  which  an  overwhelming  impression 
had  rushed  in  upon  her — a  flood  of  distant  emo 
tion,  a  sort  of  voiceless  cry,  in  a  flash  traversing 
half  the  earth  and  unerringly  reaching  her. 

Little  by  little  her  nerves  and  muscles  relaxed. 
Moving  as  though  her  limbs  were  weighted  with 
lead,  after  carefully  drawing  the  fire  screen  in 
front  of  the  glowing  embers,  she  put  on  her  black 
toque,  her  long  coat  of  black  fur  and  her  black 
gloves. 

As  she  crossed  the  sidewalk  to  her  car,  an  eddy 
of  wind  raised  up  before  her,  head  high,  a  whirl 
of  snowflakes  that  resembled  a  wraith  for  one  mo 
ment,  before  it  was  whipped  away  into  the  dark 
ness. 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  MONTH  after  that  stormy  night  when  Lilla  had 
felt  the  impact  of  some  far-off  gush  of  feeling,  the 
newspapers  published  a  despatch  reporting  the 
death  of  Lawrence  Teck  at  the  hands  of  savages. 

Four  months  passed,  however,  before  Lilla  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  Parr,  the  valet. 

It  had  happened  in  the  country  of  the  Mam- 
bava.  That  tribe,  despite  their  well-known  ani 
mosity  to  strangers,  had  not  been  hostile  to  Law 
rence.  Indeed,  he  had  won  the  friendship  of  their 
king.  Yet  it  was  in  the  king's  stronghold  that  the 
tragedy  had  happened. 

There  had  been  a  beer  dance,  a  disorderly  festi 
val  ending  in  a  clash  between  the  Mambava  war 
riors  and  Lawrence's  camp  police.  Almost  with 
out  warning  the  rifles  had  cracked,  the  spears  had 
begun  to  fly.  Lawrence,  throwing  himself  between 
the  parties,  had  been  among  the  first  to  fall.  Then 
a  frenzy  had  seized  the  savages ;  a  panic,  the  in 
truders.  It  had  been  a  massacre — a  headlong 
flight  amid  the  Mambava  forests,  through  which 
Parr,  himself  badly  wounded,  and  half  the  time 
unconscious,  had  been  dragged  by  five  Mohamme- 

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SACRIFICE 

dan  survivors.  They  had  gained  an  ontpost  fort 
where,  ever  since,  Parr  had  lain  hovering  between 
life  and  death,  not  only  crippled  by  his  wounds, 
but  also  stricken  with  the  black-water  fever. 
Then,  at  last,  he  had  gathered  strength  enough  to 
scrawl  these  lines. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HER  friends  were  surprised  that  she  "took  it 
as  well  as  she  did."  Considering  her  emotional 
legacy,  they  had  expected  a  collapse.  On  the  con 
trary  she  remained,  as  it  seemed,  almost  passion 
less.  She  did  not  show  even  that  desire  for  sym 
pathy  which  is  characteristic  of  hysterical  natures. 

Fanny  Brassfield  noticed  presently,  however, 
that  Lilla  could  no  longer  look  at  negroes  without 
turning  pale,  that  her  antipathy  to  certain  colors, 
sounds,  and  perfumes  had  increased,  and  that 
sometimes  she  appeared  to  be  listening  to  a  voice 
inaudible  to  others. 

It  was  the  voice  of  her  thoughts,  which  she 
heard,  now  and  then,  just  as  if  some  one  were  whis 
pering  in  her  ear. 

She  became  subject  to  reveries  in  which  there 
were  frequent  lapses  from  all  mental  function. 
Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  was  filled  with  a  longing 
for  movement. 

She  went  abroad  alone,  and  settled  herself  in 
a  villa  on  the  French  Riviera. 

Every  morning  there  appeared  on  the  terrace 
of  a  neighboring  villa  a  young  Frenchwoman  in 

79 


SACRIFICE 

a  white  straw  hat  and  a  white  dress,  carrying  an 
ebony  cane,  and  followed  by  a  brown  spaniel.  In 
the  evening  the  stranger  might  be  seen  pacing  be 
hind  the  marble  nrns  in  a  gown  of  gold  and  silver 
lace,  or  perhaps  in  a  black  dress  spotted  with  large 
medallions  of  pearl  and  turquoise.  A  tall  man 
walked  by  her  side;  and  when  their  silhouettes 
stood  out  against  the  luminous  sea  there  came  to 
Lilla,  with  the  interminable  odor  of  roses,  a  soft 
laugh  of  happiness. 

The  sound  floated  across  a  gulf  as  wide  as  that 
which  separates  one  world  from  another. 

As  for  Lilla,  her  world  lay  in  the  past ;  and  all 
this  semitropical  luxuriance  of  nature,  enriched 
and  complicated  by  an  insatiable  mankind,  was 
lost  in  such  mistiness  as  had  risen  round  her  in 
childhood — when  her  world  had  seemed  to  lie  in 
the  future.  Sometimes  those  past  events,  from 
her  continual  rehearsal  of  them,  attained  recrea 
tion;  the  precious  scenes  surrounded  her  visibly 
and  almost  tangibly;  and  the  dark  garden  of  the 
villa  became  the  other  garden,  the  threshold  of 
love.  Then  she  realized  that  this  was  one  more  de 
lusion  due  to  her  abnormal  state  of  mind.  In  her 
terror  she  reached  out  through  the  shadows  to 
grasp  at  something  that  might  help  her  to  regain 
contact  with  reality.  She  clutched  a  rose,  and  as 
she  crushed  its  sweetness  to  her  face  its  thorn 
pierced  her  lip.  She  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying  and 
laughing  at  this  reassurance — this  proof  that  there 

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SACRIFICE 

existed,  after  all,  a  material  world,  of  beauty  in 
extricably  mingled  with  despair. 

But  loneliness  remained. 

She  expected  no  abatement  of  this  loneliness; 
for  he  was  gone  after  showing  her  that  it  was  he, 
of  a  worldf ul  of  men,  for  whom  she  had  been  wait 
ing.  And  now,  more  and  more,  her  objective  mind 
was  filled  with  hitherto  unsuspected  memories  of 
him,  a  thousand  fragmentary  recollections  that 
she  fitted  together  into  an  image  more  vivid  than 
the  man  himself  had  been.  This  image,  gilded  by 
layer  after  layer  of  pathetic  thoughts,  enlarged 
by  the  continuous  enhancement  of  his  value,  grad 
ually  assumed  an  heroic  magnitude,  and  became 
more  splendid  than  a  statue  in  a  temple.  So  now 
it  was  no  longer  a  man  that  she  contemplated  in 
her  reveries,  but  a  sort  of  god  whose  stubborn 
ness  had  destroyed  her. 

In  those  nightmares  of  hers,  however,  he  was 
still  a  man,  subject  to  mortal  tragedy.  Waking 
with  a  cry,  she  discerned,  in  the  act  of  fading  away 
against  the  curtains,  the  dead- white,  wedge-shaped 
face  of  Anna  Zanidov. 

One  day  she  closed  the  villa  and  went  swiftly 
to  Lausanne. 

She  entered  a  bright  consulting  room  where 
there  rose  to  meet  her,  from  behind  a  desk,  a  calm- 
looking  man  with  a  bushy  red  and  white  beard. 
His  gaze  took  in,  in  a  flash,  her  widow's  weeds, 
her  tall,  slim  person,  her  delicate,  pale  brown 

81 


SACRIFICE 

face,  her  features  composed  and  yet  a  trifle  wild, 
her  whole  effect  of  elegance  and  singularity. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  am  going  mad,"  she  blurted  out, 
by  way  of  greeting. 

The  famous  physician  smoothed  his  beard  reflec 
tively. 

" There  is  a  story,  perhaps?" 

And  when  she  had  told  him  everything,  he  re 
marked,  "I  will  make  out  for  you  a  series  of  ap 
pointments." 

"The  cause  will  remain,"  she  returned. 

"But  I  shall  change  your  thoughts  about  the 
cause,"  he  said  paternally. 

"No!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  vibrant  with 
apprehension.  For  she  would  have  gone  on  risk 
ing  this  madness  that  she  feared,  rather  than  let 
him  efface  from  her  conscious  thoughts,  or  even 
dim,  one  recollection  of  Lawrence. 

He  understood.  Casting  down  his  eyes,  he  re 
flected  : 

"Apparently  this  charming  person  has  never 
been  told  how  extreme  an  example  she  is  of  our 
poor  civilisees.  For  the  sake  of  a  dead  man  she 
is  willing,  after  all,  to  commit  slow  suicide.  If 
she  continues  to  nurse  this  grief  which  is  indis 
soluble  from  her  love,  with  her  predispositions 
she  will  go  the  usual  way,  probably  ending  in  a 
psychic  collapse.  Ah,  yes,  if  she  had  not  come  to 
me  she  would  just  have  drifted  on  and  on  into  the 
devil  knows  what.  As  it  is,  I  don't  fancy  that  I 

82 


SACRIFICE 

conld  make  her  quite  unemotional ;  but  that  grief 
— there's  no  reason  why  she  should  go  through  life 
under  that  additional  burden!  She  is  exquisite, 
young,  sure  of  many  happy  years  with  some  one 
else,  if  she  is  cured  of  this  preoccupation  with 
that  fellow  who  is  gone.  Shall  I  ask  permission 
to  try  to  do  her  that  favor?" 

The  celebrated  specialist,  raising  his  eyes,  said 
benevolently  to  Lilla : 

"At  least,  madam,  you  have  no  objection  to  my 
stopping  those  nightmares  of  yours?" 

Every  day,  for  three  weeks,  she  returned  to  the 
consultation  room,  sat  down  in  a  deep  leather 
chair,  fixed  her  eyes  on  a  bright  metal  ball,  and 
fell  asleep.  The  famous  physician  found  her,  as 
he  had  expected,  extremely  impressionable.  On 
waking,  she  had  no  objective  recollection  of  what 
had  been  said  to  her. 

But  the  dreams  ceased  to  torment  her. 

With  a  strange,  almost  unprecedented  feeling 
of  peace  she  traveled  down  to  Lake  Como.  Here 
she  dwelt  in  a  house  smothered  in  flowers,  on  a 
promontory  that  was  almost  an  island. 

In  the  morning  she  walked  in  the  garden, 
drenched  in  sunshine,  enveloped  in  the  silence  of 
the  lake,  beyond  which  she  saw,  far  away,  other 
villas  nestling  at  the  bases  of  the  mountains.  A 
sensation  of  humility  came  to  her.  Amid  that 
great  panorama  of  blue  and  gold  she  seemed  to 
perceive  subtle  traces  of  a  beneficent  divinity. 

83 


SACRIFICE 

The  sunshine  veiled  the  hawks  that  were  soaring 
through  the  sky  in  quest  of  weaker  birds;  the 
waters  of  the  lake  concealed  the  fishes  that  were 
devouring  one  another;  and  when,  with  a  timid 
and  pleading  naivete,  she  paused  before  a  rose 
bush,  she  did  not  see,  behind  those  petals,  the  spid 
ers  spinning  their  traps. 

As  she  returned  toward  the  house,  there  stole 
over  her  a  pleasant  weakness,  a  childlike  and  trem 
ulous  trust;  and  she  felt  the  soft  air  more  keenly, 
smelled  more  delicate  fragrances,  heard  a  multi 
tude  of  infinitesimal  sounds  that  had  not  reached 
her  ears  a  moment  ago. 

She  sat  in  a  high-ceiled,  white-walled  room  with 
French  windows  opening  on  a  terrace  where  olea 
fragans  blossoms  expanded  round  the  base  of  a 
statue  by  Canova.  At  last  a  feeling  of  incom 
pleteness  penetrated  her  languor.  She  rose  to 
pace  the  mosaic  floor  on  which  appeared  a  design 
of  mermaids  and  tritons. 

"What  shall  I  do  now!  I  must  fill  my  life  with 
something.  I  must  find  some  way  to  occupy  my 
mind." 

She  thought  of  mastering  another  language ;  for 
like  many  persons  of  similar  temperament  she 
found  the  learning  of  foreign  tongues  a  simple 
matter.  But  what  language?  Already  she  knew 
French,  Italian,  and  German.  Eussian,  then! 

She  recoiled  from  that  thought,  associated  as  it 
was  with  Anna  Zanidov. 

84 


SACRIFICE 

Sitting  down  at  the  piano,  she  played  Chopin. 

Her  interpretation  of  the  piece  was  good,  but 
not  eloquent.  The  spirit  that  she  had  heard  cer 
tain  musicians  put  into  it  was  lacking.  She  re 
membered  how  differently  even  old  Brantome,  the 
expatriated  French  critic,  had  expressed  these 
phrases.  She  wondered  why,  with  her  immense 
passion  for  music,  she  had  never  been  able  to 
translate  its  profoundest  spirit. 

And  she  recalled  an  old  longing  of  hers  to  com 
pose  some  musical  masterpiece.  For  that  purpose 
she  had  faithfully  studied  harmony,  counterpoint, 
fugue,  and  musical  form,  had  steeped  herself  in 
the  works  of  the  masters  from  Palestrina  to  Stra 
vinsky.  Yet  her  own  creative  efforts  had  ended  in 
platitudes.  Was  it  true  that  women,  supposed  to 
be  more  emotional  than  men,  were  incapable  of 
employing  successfully  the  most  intense  medium 
for  the  revealment  of  emotion! 

*  *  What  am  I  good  for  ?  Ah,  what  shall  I  do  with 
my  life?" 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  boatman  rowed  her  out 
on  the  lake.  At  twilight  the  mauve  shadows  on 
the  cliffs  combined  with  the  pallor  of  the  Alps  to 
form  round  her  a  setting  full  of  poetry  and  pathos. 
She  thought  how  perfectly  these  things  might  once 
have  enclosed  her  in  the  scenery  of  love — yet  now, 
for  some  reason,  they  were  incapable  of  composing 
with  a  proper  vividness  the  scenery  of  grief. 

She  returned  to  the  villa  to  find  visitors,  women 
85 


SACRIFICE 

whom  she  had  known  in  girlhood,  who  had  married 
members  of  the  Italian  nobility,  and  now  were  so 
journing  in  the  neighborhood.  They  brought  men 
with  them,  and  sometimes  stayed  to  dinner. 

One  night,  as  she  leaned  against  the  balustrade 
of  the  terrace,  watching  the  strings  of  lights  across 
the  lake,  a  young  Roman,  tall,  dark  and  aquiline, 
handsome  and  strong,  laid  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"It  is  a  world  made  for  happiness,"  he 
breathed. 

The  others,  in  the  white-walled  room  now  mel 
low  from  lamplight,  were  clustered  round  the 
piano,  and  one  of  them  was  singing  a  song  by 
Tosti.  Without  drawing  away  her  hand,  Lilla  re 
turned  : 

"Happiness.    Yes,  tell  me  what  it  consists  in." 

"In  the  glory  of  life  and  love.  In  the  splendors 
of  this  world  and  our  acceptance  of  them — we  who 
are  this  world's  strange,  sensitive  culmination. 
Not  to  question,  but  to  feel,  with  these  feelings  of 
ours  that  a  thousand  generations  have  made  so 
fine,  so  complex.  To  be  natural  in  the  heart  of 
nature. ' ' 

She  smiled  mournfully : 

"You  realists!  And  are  these  things  that  you 
celebrate  reality?  They  fade  and  die " 

"But  while  they  live  they  live,"  he  cried  low, 
with  an  accent  of  austere  passion,  and  seized  her 
in  his  arms. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  move.    She  let  herself 

86 


SACRIFICE 

feel  that  contact,  that  strength  and  fervor,  with  a 
nearly  analytical  attentiveness,  with;  a  melancholy 
curiosity.  But  of  a  sudden  she  pushed  him  from 
her  with  a  surprising  strength,  her  heart  beating 
wildly.  She  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  then  en 
tered  the  house. 

A  fortnight  later  she  returned  to  New  York. 

Winter  was  imminent;  but  few  of  her  friends 
had  yet  appeared  in  town.  One  day  on  Fifth  Ave 
nue,  however,  she  met  old  Brantome,  the  critic, 
who  invited  her  to  an  afternoon  of  music  at  his 
apartment. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  Brantome 's  living  room  the  book  shelves  rose 
to  the  ceiling;  between  them  the  spaces  on  the 
walls  were  covered  with  the  mementoes  of  a  long 
life.  On  the  tables  stood  bowls  of  flowers,  stacks 
of  musical  scores,  trays  of  wineglasses,  cigarette 
boxes  that  had  once  been  jewel  cases,  half-empty 
teacups,  and  the  gold  purses  or  jet  handbags  of 
women  who  reclined  in  the  deep  chairs  with  their 
faces  turned  toward  the  piano. 

Men  leaned  smoking  in  the  heavily  curtained 
embrasures  of  the  windows,  their  foreheads  low 
ered,  their  eyebrows  casting  over  their  eyes  the 
shadows  as  if  of  a  profound  fatigue.  Beside  the 
hall  door  loomed  the  white  mane  of  Brantome,  who 
turned,  at  an  inflow  of  artificial  light,  to  greet  the 
small  Italian  woman  that  had  recently  become  a 
prima  donna. 

And  presently  this  song  bird  warbled  for  her 
comrades  of  the  arts,  as  she  would  have  done  in 
no  other  company.  The  air  shook  from  her  agile 
cadenzas.  A  last,  long  trill,  high  and  pure,  died 
away  vibrating  in  the  vases  of  iridescent  glass. 

Then  some  one  persuaded  Brantome  to  play  a 


SACRIFICE 

piece  of  Schumann's.    And  once  more  Lilla  heard 
Vienna  Carnival. 

When  he  had  finished  playing,  Brantome  sat 
down  beside  her. 

"So  it  is  as  magical  as  ever,  a  bit  of  music?" 
he  inquired,  in  his  rumbling,  hoarse  voice. 

"You  were  playing  that  at  the  moment  when  I 
first  saw  my  husband,"  she  said. 

He  contemplated  her  with  his  haggard  old  eyes. 
Patting  her  hand,  he  declared : 

"All  these  emotions  that  you,  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  have  felt,  I  believe  that  I,  an  ugly,  worn- 
out  old  man,  have  felt,  also.  I,  too,  have  felt  in 
my  time  that  the  world  was  at  an  end.  I  have 
suffered  from  the  same  inability  to  return  into  life. 
Well,  will  you  think  me  cruel — shall  I  appear  to 
you  as  the  thief  of  an  inestimable  treasure — if  I 
tell  you  something?  In  time,  sooner  or  later,  one 
recovers.  I  don 't  mean  that  one  forgets.  It  is  al 
ways  there ;  and  a  chance  sound  or  perfume  brings 
it  back  to  one.  But  at  last  it  returns  so  gently! 
One  feels  then,  instead  of  pain,  almost  a  gentle, 
melancholy  pleasure.  Then  you  will  learn  that 
there  may  be  certain  subtle  joys  in  grief." 

She  lowered  her  gaze,  flinching  inwardly,  as  one 
sometimes  does  when  credited  with  a  feeling  that 
one  no  longer  fully  deserves.  A  dismal  perplexity 
came  to  her,  a  little  pang  of  treason,  as  she  asked 
him: 

"How  can  I  hasten  that  day?" 
89 


SACRIFICE 

He  suggested: 

"You  might  perhaps  find  some  engrossing  in 
terest?" 

Near  the  piano  a  group  were  discussing  women's 
failures  in  music.  One  heard  the  names  of  Chami- 
nade,  Augusta  Holmes,  Ethel  Smyth.  Why  had 
there  been  no  female  Beethovens,  Liszts,  or  even 
Chopins?  The  reason,  asserted  a  middle-aged 
man,  was  that  women's  emotions  were  too  thor 
oughly  instinctive  to  be  projected  in  the  form  of 
first-class  music,  which  was,  in  fine,  emotion  ana 
lyzed,  compressed  within  the  limits  of  fixed  rules, 
expressed  by  series  of  arbitrary  signs.  In  the 
midst  of  his  conclusion,  however,  he  lost  his  self- 
satisfied  smile :  he  had  caught  sight  of  Lilla,  who 
was  looking  at  him  blankly  as  though  he  had 
slammed  a  transparent  door  in  her  face. 

She  heard  Brantome  benevolently  murmuring 
the  platitude : 

"It  is  often  in  making  others  forget  their  sor 
rows  that  one  diminishes  one's  own,  and  in  doing 
good  to  others  that  one  finds  good  for  oneself." 

She  showed  him  a  bitter  smile. 

"Yes,  charity.  The  usual  prescription.  I  have 
already  tried  it."  She  added,  "Of  course  those 
poor  people  in  their  poverty  and  illnesses  merely 
appeared  to  me  as  a  means  for  my  own  relief.  In 
helping  them  I  didn't  think  of  their  troubles,  but 
of  forgetting  my  own.  Sometimes  when  I've  writ 
ten  a  check  I  almost  expect  it  to  buy  me  a  less 

90 


SACRIFICE 

gloomy  3ay.  At  such  moments  I  should  be  ab 
surd  if  I  weren't  contemptible." 

"Bah!  you  are  unjust  to  yourself." 

It  was  true.  Lilla,  who  had  suffered  so  much 
from  her  exceptional  temperament,  could  not  bear 
to  see  others  suffer;  and  in  the  grip  of  her  own 
weaknesses  she  had  always  felt  compassion  for  the 
weak. 

"But  I  ought  not  to  come  here,"  she  said. 

She  explained  that  in  this  place  she  "felt  her 
worthlessness. "  It  would  be  better,  she  thought, 
to  remain  in  the  Brassfield  state  of  mind :  thus  one 
might  find  an  anodyne  for  this  sense  of  insignifi 
cance.  For,  to  those  others,  of  course,  wealth  and 
social  position  were  the  important  things  in  life, 
magnificently  making  up  for  the  lack  of  other 
qualities.  If  they  had  artistic  enthusiasms,  it  was 
because  they  regarded  the  arts  as  did  the  Eoman 
conquerors — as  elements  created  for  no  other  rea 
son  than  to  enhance  their  triumphs.  Debussy,  she 
suggested,  had  been  born  to  give  them  a  cause 
for  displaying  their  jewels  at  the  opera,  just  as 
Titian  had  existed  in  order  that  their  acquisition 
of  a  painting  by  his  hand  might  be  cabled  round 
the  world.  In  that  region  of  inverted  values  one 
took  on  the  egotism  of  the  fabled  frog  in  the  well, 
who  laughed  to  scorn  the  frog  that  came  to  tell 
him  of  the  ocean. 

"But  the  well  is  so  prettily  gilded,"  Lilla  re 
marked.  "And  it's  lined  with  so  many  nice  little 

91 


SACRIFICE 

mirrors  in  Louis  XVI  frames,  that  you  can  hardly 
blame  the  frog  if  he  imagines  that  his  importance, 
like  his  reflections,  extends  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
in  that  multiplied  glitter  of  gilt." 

Brantome  began  to  laugh,  then  turned  serious. 

"You  must  be  desperate,"  he  commented. 

"That  is  your  fault.  I've  always  had  a  longing 
for  what  I  find  in  these  rooms ;  but  that  longing 
isn't  backed  up  by  any  capacity.  "When  one  of 
these  friends  of  yours  has  suffered  a  loss,  his  art 
still  remains.  And  maybe  it  becomes  a  richer  art 
because  of  his  loss." 

She  sighed,  her  pale  brown  cheek  resting  against 
her  black-gloved  hand,  her  black  fur  collar  fram 
ing  her  neck  on  which  the  strand  of  pearls  was  less 
lustrous  than  the  teeth  between  her  parted  lips. 

His  leonine  old  visage  grew  soft  as  he  looked  at 
her,  and  under  his  white  mustaches  of  a  Viking 
there  appeared  a  sad  smile,  as  if  he  were  thinking 
that  things  might  have  been  different  with  him, 
had  she,  with  this  beauty  and  these  predilections, 
been  young  when  he  had  been  young. 

"Oh,  no,  you  must  not  stop  coming  here,"  he 
protested  gently.  "It's  only  right  that  these  poor 
fellows  should  have  their  glimpses  of  a  composite 
of  all  the  beautiful  muses — who,  as  you'll  remem 
ber,  were  not  themselves  practitioners  in  the  arts, 
but  the  inspirers  of  artists.  Isn't  there,  for 
women,  besides  the  joys  of  personal  accomplish- 

92 


SACRIFICE 

ment,  another  satisfaction,  which  one  might  call 
vicarious?" 

She  gave  him  again  her  bitter,  listless  smile. 

"You  believe  that  stuff  about  women's  inspira 
tion?" 

'  *  But  why  not,  good  heavens !  When  it  is  a  fact 
of  life " 

He  bade  her  consider  the  great  music  written  by 
men.  Almost  invariably  one  found  in  its  depths 
a  longing  for  synthesis  with  some  ideal  beauty, 
produced  by  thoughts  of  some  idealized  woman. 
Or  else,  by  woman  in  the  abstract — that  obsession 
which,  ever  since  the  days  of  Dante  and  the  trouba 
dours,  had  attained  a  nearly  religious  quality, 
against  whose  pressure  even  the  modern  material 
ist  struggled  in  vain.  Yes,  ever  since  that  fatal 
twelfth  century  it  was  woman,  the  goddess,  the 
Beatrice-form  beckoning  on  the  staircase  of  Para 
dise,  who  attracted  upward  the  dazzled  gaze  of 
man,  and  who  seemed,  by  an  unearthly  smile — 
with  which  man  himself  had  possibly  endowed  her 
— to  promise  a  mystical  salvation  and  a  sort  of 
celestial  bliss. 

"But  at  times,  as  I  say,"  he  concluded,  with  a 
shrug,  "some  lucky  artist  is  suddenly  confronted 
by  all  that  in  bodily  form — by  a  Beatrice  in  a  sable 
coat  from  Fifth  Avenue  and  a  little  black  hat  from 
Paris." 

But  in  her  silvery  voice  there  was  a  cadence  of 
irony,  when  she  demanded: 

93 


SACRIFICE 

"Whom  shall  I  inspire?  Show  me  the  one  by 
whose  aid  I  can  pretend  that  the  woman  is  respon 
sible  for  the  masterpieces,  as  no  doubt  Vittoria 
Colonna  sometimes  pretended  to  herself  in  the  case 
of  Michael  Angel  o.  But  remember  that  it  must 
be  an  affair  like  that  one,  romantically  platonic — 
a  la  maniere  de  Provence." 

Brantome  nodded  benignantly.  But  old  pangs 
had  revived  in  his  heart. 

How  well  he  understood  this  restlessness  of 
hers,  this  sense  of  impotency,  this  secret  rancor  at 
contemplation  of  congenial  forms  of  success !  He, 
by  some  minute  fault,  some  tiny  slip  of  fate,  had 
long  ago  been  doomed  to  these  same  sensations. 
In  the  morning  of  youth,  when  gazing  toward  the 
future,  he  had  seen  the  world  at  his  feet,  unaware 
of  that  little  flaw  in  the  foundations  of  his  Castle 
in  Spain,  unwarned  of  the  trick. that  destiny  was 
going  to  play  on  him.  All  these  years  it  had  been 
here  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  the  sensation  of 
inferiority,  the  gnawing  chagrin.  He  had  masked 
it  well:  one  discerned  it  only  in  some  rare  look 
when  he  was  off  his  guard.  And  now  and  then, 
for  a  while,  he  even  vanquished  it,  when  some  fresh 
voice  rose  in  the  world  of  music,  and  he  cham 
pioned  the  cause  of  that  new  genius  so  generously, 
hotly,  and  triumphantly  that  the  consequent  re 
nown  seemed  nearly  to  be  his  own,  since  he  had 
helped  by  his  enthusiasm  to  establish  it. 

"Yes,  certainly,  a  la  maniere  de  Provence — since 
94 


SACRIFICE 

music  is  so  very  impersonal  an  art,"  he  muttered, 
with  an  absentminded,  haggard  smile. 

But  Lilla  was  watching  a  man  and  woman  who 
sat  in  a  shadowy  alcove,  and  who,  as  some  one  be 
gan  to  play  a  nocturne,  let  their  fingers  twine  to 
gether. 


CHAPTER 


ONE  night,  at  the  end  of  the  winter,  she  aston 
ished  everybody  by  appearing  with  Fanny  Brass- 
field  in  a  box  at  the  opera,  wearing  a  black  velvet 
dress  that  made  her,  in  that  great  horseshoe 
blooming  with  flowerlike  gowns,  the  objective  of 
all  eyes, 

"There  is  hope!"  said  one  young  man  wag 
gishly  to  another,  "Cornie  Eysbroek  ought  to  see 
this." 

But  Cornelius  Rysbroek  was  traveling  far 
away. 

As  for  Lawrence,  he  was  slipping  farther  and 
farther  into  the  past.  There  were  times  when 
without  the  aid  of  his  picture  Lilla  could  no  longer 
visualize  his  face.  Their  moment  of  love  became 
blurred  in  her  memory.  At  times,  remorsefully, 
as  if  struggling  against  a  lethargy  mysteriously 
imposed  upon  her  natural  instincts,  she  strove  to 
revive  her  grief  in  its  full  strength  ;  and  then,  for 
an  instant,  her  recollections  became  as  poignant  as 
though  he  had  been  with  her  only  yesterday.  But 
that  perception  could  not  always  be  evoked  at 
will;  and  ordinarily  Lilla  was  aware  only  of  a 

96 


SACRIFICE 

faint  echo  from  a  distant  region  of  pathos  and  de 
light — an  echo  that  reached  her,  through  a  host  of 
other  sounds,  like  the  intrinsic  spirit  of  an  ultra 
modern  symphony,  so  wrapped  up  in  dissonances 
as  to  be  nearly  unintelligible. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  wondered.  "Are  those 
right  who  would  say  that  he  has  ceased  to  exist 
except  in  memory?" 

At  this  thought  she  wept,  not  for  him  so  mucK 
as  for  the  blurring  of  her  remembrance  of  him. 
And  sometimes,  when  she  had  not  thought  of  him 
all  day,  she  was  awakened  in  the  night  by  her  own 
cry: 

"Give  me  back  my  love!  Give  me  back  my 
grief!" 

Eising  from  her  bed,  she  pored  over  the  books 
on  spiritualism  that  still  formed  a  long  row  on 
the  shelf  of  her  writing  desk.  She  envied  the 
women  who  were  reported  to  have  received, 
through  automatic  writing,  messages  from  the 
dead.  She  sat  down,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  to 
hold  over  the  clean  sheet  of  paper  the  perpendicu 
lar  pencil.  With  her  head  bowed  forward,  her  pose 
an  epitome  of  patience,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 
pencil  point,  which  slowly  made  meaningless  curli 
cues. 

But  suddenly,  when  she  was  expecting  nothing, 
there  passed  through  her  a  tingling  warmth  such 
as  that  which  must  pervade  the  earth  at  spring- 

97 


SACEIFICE 

time.  She  stared  round  the  room  with  the  thought, 
"His  spirit  is  here!" 

And  she  uttered,  very  distinctly,  in  the  hope  that 
the  words  might  penetrate  his  world  from  hers: 

"I  love  you  as  much  as  ever!" 

Those  moments  became  rare.  At  last  tKey 
ceased  to  occur, 

"He  has  passed  so  far  into  the  beyond  that  he 
can  no  longer  return  to  me." 

As  if  it  had  been  awaiting  this  acknowledgment, 
a  thicker  curtain  descended  between  Lilla  and  the 
past. 

And  now  she  was  like  some  medieval  chatelaine 
who,  emerging  from  a  dark  and  lonely  castle, 
views  all  the  gewgaws  that  a  far-wandering  ped- 
dlar  has  spread  out  for  her  in  the  sun. 

There  were  the  art  galleries  filled  with  statues 
in  inchoate  or  tortured  forms,  or  with  paintings 
that  seemed  to  Lilla  to  have  been  conceived  by 
madmen,  yet  in  which  certain  persons  declared 
that  they  could  discern  a  sanity  beyond  the  un 
derstanding  of  the  age.  And  there  were  the  con 
cert  halls  given  over  to  the  very  newest  music, 
from  which  Lilla  emerged  with  her  nerves  exacer 
bated. 

Then  the  prosceniums  of  the  theaters  framed 
pageants  of  Oriental  sensuousness — scenes  of  hal 
lucinatory  seductiveness  and  splendor,  through 
which,  to  a  blare  of  startling  music,  bounded 
swarms  of  half-naked  bodies  jingling  with  jewels. 

98 


SACRIFICE 

Or,  abruptly,  the  softness  of  oboes  and  cellos,  the 
flagrancy  of  musk,  the  gleam  of  purple  light  on 
torsoes  moist  from  exertion,  a  presentment  of 
love  as  understood  by  ancient  Eastern  despots — 
a  perverse  and  gorgeous  ideal  resuscitated  to  chal 
lenge  modern  thought.  Or  perhaps,  with  a  sud 
den  rush  of  darkness  and  return  of  light,  before 
scenery  that  tore  at  the  nerves  like  a  discord  of 
trumpets,  a  dancer — a  heathen  god — leaped  high 
into  the  air,  with  muscles  gilded  as  if  to  add  an 
overwhelming  value  to  mere  human  flesh. 

Later,  the  chandeliers  of  ballrooms,  multiplied 
by  those  Louis  XVI  mirrors  that  Lilla  had  derided, 
cast  their  glitter  upon  the  bright  dresses  of  a  new 
design,  the  coiffures  that  had  been  invented  yes 
terday,  the  jewels,  maybe  souvenirs  of  old  fer 
vors,  that  had  been  ruthlessly  reset.  In  glass 
galleries  banked  with  azaleas,  where  the  waltz 
music  was  like  an  echo  from  a  still  more  desirable 
world,  looks  melted  into  embraces,  or,  at  least,  a 
whisper  promised  the  kiss  that  caution  there  de 
nied.  On  all  sides  love  was  going  forward:  men 
and  women  were  dancing  toward  the  pain  of  hap 
piness  or  the  strange  pleasures  of  tragedy.  And 
even  in  the  brief  silence  the  air  seemed  to  ring 
from  a  concerted  laugh  of  triumph  over  life. 

Yet  all  these  activities  were  informed  with  a 
feverish  haste,  a  sort  of  delirious  greediness  and 
apprehension,  as  though  one  must  feel  very  quickly 

99 


SACRIFICE 

everything  that  humanity's  experiments  had  made 
the  senses  capable  of  feeling. 

Lilla  stood  watching  this  whirlpool. 

Sometimes  she  thought  of  opening  the  Long 
Island  house  and  shutting  herself  up  there,  of 
collecting  Chinese  porcelains,  of  studying  a  new 
language  or  religion. 

"Ah,  if  I  had  some  real  object!" 

One  day  she  put  on  her  hat  intending  to  drive 
uptown  and  spend  an  hour  in  Lawrence's  old 
rooms ;  for  nothing  was  changed  there,  except  that 
nowadays  the  curtains  were  always  drawn,  and 
the  hearth  was  always  cold.  But  this  time  she  pur 
posed  to  light  the  fire,  and  pretend 

Instead,  she  returned  to  Brantome's.  Some 
one  had  just  stopped  playing.  On  the  dim  divans, 
men  and  women  sat  pensively  holding  teacups  on 
their  knees.  The  firelight  appeared  to  give  life 
to  the  many  rows  of  books,  as  though  all  the  fine 
emotions  stored  between  those  covers  were  con 
suming  the  leather  that  was  intricately  tooled  with 
gold.  Together  with  the  wood  smoke,  and  the 
scents  of  tobacco  and  tea,  there  stole  through  the 
quiet  room  a  redolence  not  of  flowers  or  of 
women's  perfumes,  but,  as  it  were,  the  essence  of 
the  mementoes  on  the  walls  and  cabinets — those 
souvenirs  of  old  friendships  and  past  attachments, 
or  maybe  of  unconfessed  infatuations  and 
thwarted  longings. 

"I  knew  you'd  come  back,"  said  Brantome, 
100 


SACRIFICE 

looking  at  Lilla  out  of  his  massive,  rained  face. 

He  made  her  sit  down  beside  him  on  a  divan 
apart  from  the  rest.  She  looked  like  a  lady  of 
cavalier  days,  he  told  her,  in  her  trieorn  hat  of 
maroon  velvet,  with  a  brown  plume  trailing  down 
to  the  shoulder  from  which  was  slipping  her  ma 
roon-colored  cloak  edged  with  fur.  He  assured 
her  that  she  had  never  looked  so  lovely. 

At  these  words  she  felt  despondency  instead  of 
pleasure. 

Across  the  room,  half  in  shadow,  with  a  ray  of 
lamplight  falling  on  his  hands,  a  young  man  sat 
sunken  in  a  wheel  chair.  He  was  frail,  obviously 
an  invalid;  yet  in  the  gloom  of  the  alcove  where 
he  was  sitting  his  complexion  seemed  bronzed,  as 
if  from  a  life  in  the  sun.  His  sensitive  face,  dis 
figured  by  his  sufferings  and  his  thoughts,  leaned 
forward;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  keyboard  of 
the  piano. 

1  'What ! ' '  Brantome  exclaimed, '  'you  don't  know 
David  Verne  ?" 

She  thought  that  she  had  heard  some  of  his 
music,  but  could  not  recall  the  impression  it  had 
made  on  her. 

"The  impression  produced  by  Verne *s  work 
isn't  usually  vague." 

"Has  he  so  much  talent?" 

"I  was  confident,"  said  Brantome,  "that  he 
would  be  the  great  composer  of  this  age." 

"And  now?" 

101 


SACRIFICE 

"It's  a  question  whether  he'll  live  through  the 
spring." 

He  told  her  David  Verne's  story. 

At  the  height  of  his  promise,  in  consequence,  it 
was  said  by  some,  of  a  certain  mental  shock,  the 
young  composer  had  fallen  victim  to  a  rare,  in 
sidious  disease,  arising  apparently  from  an  or 
ganic  derangement,  small  in  itself  but  deadly  in  its 
secondary  effects.  The  chief  characteristics  of 
this  malady  were  a  general  muscular  prostration 
growing  ever  more  profound,  and  a  slowly  increas 
ing  feebleness  of  vital  action.  It  was  an  illness 
for  which  medical  science  had  provided  no  cure; 
the  physicians  could  prescribe  only  such  drugs  as 
arsenic  and  strychnia,  to  postpone  as  long  as  pos 
sible  the  climax  of  that  fatal  debility.  The  patient 
was  already  afflicted  with  an  immense  exhaustion, 
incapacitated  from  any  but  the  slightest  of  mus 
cular  efforts,  unable  to  carry  on  the  simplest  oc 
cupation.  Yet  despite  his  almost  continuous  at 
tacks  of  headache  he  could  think — of  the  collapse 
of  his  hopes,  of  the  approaching  end. 

In  the  beginning  David  Verne  had  rebelled 
against  this  fate  with  all  the  force  of  one  who 
feels  that  he  is  in  the  world  for  an  unparalleled 
purpose — who  refuses  to  believe  that  any  physical 
affliction  is  meant  to  thwart  the  unfoldment  of 
his  genius.  All  the  splendid  raptures  pressing 
toward  expression,  the  conviction  of  unique  ca 
pacity  and  great  prolificness,  reinforced  his  de- 

102 


SACRIFICE 

termination  to  be  well  again.  Brantome  declared 
that  in  those  early  days  it  had  been  like  the  com 
bat  of  a  hero  against  malefic  gods — a  "sort  of 
Greek  tragedy. " 

"Well,"  said  Brantome,  in  a  tone  of  stifled  fury, 
glaring  at  Lilla  with  his  eyes  of  an  old  conquered 
Viking,  "have  you  seen  these  pigmies  brandishing 
their  fists  at  thunderbolts?" 

Disqualified  long  ago  from  walking,  to-day 
David  Verne  could  hardly  raise  his  hands  to  lay 
them  limply  upon  the  keyboard  of  a  piano. 

His  mind  had  suffered  as  sad  a  deterioration  as 
his  body..  Formerly  fine,  as  befitted  the  source  of 
fine  achievements,  it  was  now  deformed  by  bit 
terness.  The  last  of  those  bright  qualities,  which 
in  other  days  had  endeared  him  to  his  friends, 
were  dying  now,  or  perhaps  were  already  dead. 
In  fact,  Brantome  confessed,  it  was  doubly  pain 
ful  to  receive  him  here ;  one  had  to  see  the  wreck 
not  only  of  a  young  physique,  but  also  of  an  in 
valuable  spirit. 

Lilla  sat  frozen.    At  last  she  uttered: 

"Ah!  this  world  of  ours!" 

And  she  had  a  vision  of  a  universal  monster 
evolving  exquisite  forms  of  beauty  only  to  destroy 
them  fiendishly. 

"Yes,"  Brantome  assented.  He,  too,  for  all  his 
experience  with  life,  looking  crushed  anew.  In 
deed,  in  his  old  countenance  there  was  a  look  of 
defeat  as  dismal  as  though  the  ruin  of  that  young 

103 


SACRIFICE 

man's  hopes  had  involved  one  more  precious  as 
piration  of  his  own.  After  a  pause  he  exclaimed, 
"I  haven't  suggested  that  you,  who  have  enough 
unhappy  recollections,  meet  the  poor  fellow " 

"What  was  the  shock  that  caused  it?" 

The  old  Frenchman  made  a  hopeless  gesture, 
and  returned: 

"I  don't  say  it  was  that.  It's  only  certain  per 
sons  who  say  the  thing  may  sometime  be  produced 
that  way.  Who  knows?  Too  sensitive! — but  if 
he  hadn't  been  we  shouldn't  have  had  the  music. 
These  poor  chaps,  always  balanced  between  joy 
and  sorrow  by  a  hair!"  And  he  ground  out  be 
tween  his  teeth,  "One  of  those  Beatrices  of  ours. 
As  if  she  had  come  to  a  harp,  and  had  made  all 
its  strings  vibrate  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
their  quality,  and  then  had  gone  on  content " 

Lilla  rose,  drew  her  cloak  around  her,  and  de 
parted  with  an  appalling  sensation  of  pity  and 
resentment. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ONE  afternoon,  returning  to  her  house  on  lower 
Fifth  Avenue,  as  she  entered  the  hall  paved  with 
black  and  white  tiles  she  saw  a  shabby  little  .man 
trying  to  rise  from  a  settee  between  two  consoles, 
by  aid  of  a  pair  of  crutches.  For  an  instant  she 
had  a  hazy  idea  that  he  ought  to  be  holding  a 
breakfast  tray  in  his  hands.  Then,  with  a  sicken 
ing  leap  of  her  heart,  she  realized  that  this  was 
Parr,  who  had  been  Lawrence  Teck's  valet. 

He  had  thought  she  would  want  to  receive  from 
him,  promptly  on  his  return,  a  first-hand  report 
on  that  African  tragedy. 

"But  where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

He  had  been  a  long  while  recovering  from  the 
wound  that  had  crippled  him,  and  from  the  black- 
water  fever.  Then  he  had  found  himself  penni 
less,  dependent  on  the  charity  of  traders  and  petty 
government  officials  in  the  port  town  lying  just 
above  the  equator.  He  had  "drifted  about,"  a 
reproach,  perhaps,  to  a  certain  human  callousness 
engendered  by  the  tropics,  till  finally  an  old  friend 
of  Lawrence  Teck's  had  appeared  from  Mozam 
bique,  found  him  sitting  in  tatters  on  the  steps  of 
a  grogshop,  and  paid  his  passage  home. 

105 


SACRIFICE 

"You  should  have  let  me  know,"  she  said  re 
morsefully. 

He  hung  his  head. 

She  led  him  into  the  drawing-room,  and  seated 
him  in  one  of  the  mulberry  chairs.  He  had  become 
an  old  man.  His  honest,  lantern- jawed  face  was 
gray  and  drawn. 

And  then  there  had  always  been  the  idea  in  his 
head  that  he  ought  to  have  fallen  with  his  mas 
ter. 

"I  couldn't  help  myself,  ma'am,"  he  said  in  a 
broken  voice.  "Before  I  hardly  knew  what  was 
up  he  was  done  for,  and  I  had  this  spear  wound 
in  me,  and  our  gun  boys  was  dragging  me  off 
amongst  them,  shooting  to  right  and  left.  I  didn  't 
rightly  know  what  was  going  on  any  more  than  if 
I'd  got  mauled  by  a  pack  of  lions.  Once  when 
I  kind  of  come  to  myself  I  tried  to  make  them  go 
back;  but  they  told  me  they'd  seen  the  Mambava 
finishing  Mr.  Teck  as  he  lay  on  the  ground " 

She  gave  a  start  and  a  moan.  He  recoiled  in 
contrition. 

At  last,  when  she  had  bade  him  continue : 

"Besides,  they  was  after  us  all  the  way.  Some 
times  they  even  showed  up  in  our  path  instead  of 
behind  us,  waving  their  shields  and  shouting  for 
a  parley.  But  we  'd  had  enough  of  their  treachery ; 
and  our  boys  let  them  have  it.  Night  and  day  it 
was  dodge  and  run.  Then  we  got  out  of  the  Mam 
bava  forests,  and  they  carried  me  the  rest  of  the 

106 


SACRIEICE 

way  in  a  hammock  made  of  vines  and  poles.  Even 
then  they  never  dared  to  light  a  fire,  because  we 
could  always  hear  the  Mambava  behind  us,  tele 
phoning  from  one  village  to  another  with  their 
drums.  But  I  couldn't  hope  to  make  you  feel  it, 
ma'am,  even  what  I  took  in  myself  when  I  wasn't 
out  of  my  head.  It  was  just  bad.  Of  course,  the 
worst  of  it  wras  that  Mr.  Teck  was  gone. ' ' 

He  began  to  cry  weakly,  exclaiming : 

"I'd  been  with  him  everywheres ! " 

He  was  living  with  relatives.  He  hoped  to  get 
a  job  as  a  watchman.  This  idea  was  repugnant  to 
her.  The  shattered,  tremulous,  little  man  was  dig 
nified  by  his  grief,  the  intensity  of  which,  after  all 
this  time,  filled  her  with  self -contempt.  Then  she 
thought,  "But  now,  by  his  aid,  I  shall  regain  that 
dear  grief!"  She  said: 

"You  must  let  me  arrange  to  have  your  pay  go 
on.  That's  what  Mr.  Teck  would  have  wished." 

She  took  his  address,  told  a  servant  to  call  a 
taxicab,  and  went  down  the  front  steps  with  Parr, 
holding  him  by  his  bony  arm  as  he  lowered  his 
crutches.  Overwhelmed  by  this  condescension,  he 
stammered : 

"I  was  afraid  to  come  here,  ma'am." 

She  replied: 

"We  need  each  other." 

Next  day  she  sought  him  out. 

She  found  him  near  Stuyvesant  Square,  in  a 
shabby  room  overlooking  a  back  yard  in  which  an 

107 


SACRIFICE 

ailanthus  tree  spread  its  limbs  above  some  clothes 
lines.  She  leaned  forward  in  a  raveled  chair,  with 
her  veil  tucked  up  so  that  she  could  see  him  better, 
her  gloved  hands  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap,  her 
eyes  intent.  When  he  had  recovered  from  her 
simplicity,  Parr  prepared  to  tell  her  what  she 
had  come  to  hear. 

But  there  were  so  many  tales  about  the  hero  to 
choose  from! 

"Anything,"  she  exclaimed.  "Make  me  hear 
what  he  used  to  say,  know  what  he  used  to  think. 
Make  me  see  him  there.  Make  him  live ! ' ' 

She  meant,  "Make  him  vivid  again  in  my  heart, 
where,  against  all  my  efforts,  his  face  has  faded 
away." 

Parr  held  his  crutches  against  his  shoulder  as 
if  they  were  the  harp  of  a  minstrel  who  has  come 
from  afar  to  chant  the  epic  of  some  already  mythi 
cal  character.  His  faded  coat  was  wrinkled  round 
the  neck ;  his  collar  was  split  at  the  folds ;  and  a 
faint  smell  of  iodoform  mingled  with  Lilla's  per 
fume,  which  a  Viennese  artist  in  odors  had  con 
cocted  especially  to  "match  her  temperament. " 

"One  time  in  Nyasaland " 

"Not  the  jungles!"  she  protested,  flinching 
back. 

"The  desert,  then?"  he  ventured. 

He  showed  Lawrence  to  her  in  the  desert  that 
is  called  Erg,  the  waste  of  shifting  sand;  and  in 
the  desert  called  Chebka,  a  wilderness  of  boulders ; 

108 


SACRIFICE 

and  in  the  desert  called  Hamedan,  the  bleak  pla 
teaux  where  there  are  no  springs  of  water;  and 
in  the  desert  called  Gaci,  the  oases,  rich  with  date 
palms,  pomegranates,  and  oleanders.  The  cara 
van  routes  unrolled  before  her,  at  sunset.  The 
hills  turned  to  ashes  of  rose;  the  sand  dunes  to 
heliotrope;  and  against  the  sky  appeared  a  cara 
van  of  many  thousands  of  camels,  bearing  on  their 
humps,  impoverished  from  hard  travel,  the  traffic 
that  passes  between  the  great  oases — the  rugs  and 
the  oil,  the  sacks  of  dates  and  boiled  locusts,  and, 
in  the  closed  palanquins,  the  women  destined  to 
new  slaveries.  A  great  calm  descended  at  dusk; 
the  tents  of  dingy  brown  hair  surrounded  the 
sheik's  pavilion,  which  was  topped  with  a  plume. 
The  air  was  filled  with  odors  of  camels,  of  cous 
cous,  of  sagebrush.  The  camp  fires  of  desert  grass 
flared  in  the  night  wind. 

He  was  always  well  received  by  the  caravan 
chiefs,  the  sheiks  of  the  oases,  the  heads  of  the 
desert  monasteries — drowsy  towns  with  arcaded 
streets  and  tunnels  of  mud,  into  whose  holy  pre 
cincts  came  no  echoes  of  war.  He  had  the  knack 
of  endearing  himself  to  fierce  men,  by  something 
in  his  character  at  the  same  time  inflexible  and 
kindly,  by  a  sympathy  that  embraced  that  other 
religion,  or  at  least  its  intrinsic  spirit,  so  that  he 
could  repeat  the  Fatihah  with  good  grace  before 
the  tombs  of  saints.  Even  the  Tuaregs,  the  un 
tamed  bandits  whose  faces  were  always  muffled 

109 


SACRIFICE 

in  black,  received  him  into  their  tents  of  red  dyed 
leather,  where  he  joked  with  their  wives  and 
daughters,  the  " little  queens,"  who  were  accus 
tomed  to  ride  alone,  fifty  miles  on  their  trotting 
camels,  to  visit  a  sweetheart. 

"But  my  picture  was  with  him,"  thought  Lilla. 
"I  was  with  him  there,  just  as  he,  through  his  pic 
ture,  though  I  had  never  seen  him,  was  with  me. 
In  our  longings,  that  crossed  in  space,  we  were 
already  united.  Even  then  our  actual  meeting 
was  predestined — like  our  parting." 

Once  he  had  encountered  a  band  of  Shaambah 
Arabs,  out,  like  knights-errant,  in  quest  of  any 
adventure.  They  had  fought  him  all  afternoon  in 
a  desert  spotted  with  gold  and  purple  lilies,  the 
burnooses  flitting  in  a  wide  ring  as  the  horses 
raced  through  the  heat.  Then  suddenly  they  had 
vanished.  The  lukewarm  water  flavored  with 
goatskin  and  tar,  the  draughts  of  sour  camel's 
milk,  had  tasted  good  after  that  scrimmage,  like 
a  combat  in  chivalry. 

What  was  it  that  had  driven  him  into  such 
places,  when  there  had  been  a  great,  rich  world 
of  safety?  Some  fatal  desire  for  regions  where 
beauty  sported  more  obviously  than  here  the  signs 
of  its  origins,  or  death  the  mask  of  beauty? 

'Yes,  there  is  a  fatality  in  all  our  preferences. 
Is  that  what  the  Arabs  mean  when  they  say  that 
our  destinies  are  written  on  our  foreheads?" 

110 


SACRIFICE 

"What  is  their  word  for  fate?"  she  inquired 
of  Parr. 

"Mektoub." 

"Mektoub!"  And  presently,  "Do  yon  speak 
Arabic?" 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am;  but  Mr.  Teck  did,  as  well  as 
any  of  'em. ' ' 

"Tell  me  more,"  she  said. 

So  he  took  her  to  the  oases.  As  one  drew  near, 
there  floated  from  the  minaret  a  thin  cry,  "Allah 
is  great!  Allah  is  great!  Allah  is  great!"  In 
the  house  of  the  sheik,  sitting  among  the  hawk- 
nosed  horsemen,  they  dipped  their  right  hands 
into  couscous  flavored  with  cinnamon,  ate  honey 
cakes  and  nougat.  In  the  doorways,  beyond  the 
range  of  the  lamp,  there  was  a  soft  clashing  of 
bangles,  a  craning  of  veiled  heads.  Then  in  the 
cool  of  the  night  they  walked  to  the  cafe,  where 
cobwebs  hung  from  the  palmwood  rafters,  and  the 
raised  hearth  glowed.  Here  were  the  men  drink 
ing  coffee  infused  with  rose  water,  pepper,  or  mint, 
smoking  tobacco  and  hasheesh.  And  here  were  the 
dancing  women — "The  Pearl,"  "Lips  of  Pome 
granate,"  "The  Star" — their  foreheads  bearing 
the  tattoo  marks  of  their  tribes,  their  cheeks  and 
chins  smeared  with  saffron,  their  fingernails  tinted 
with  henna,  their  bodies  moving  convulsively 
under  rose-colored  satin  dresses. 

But  Lilla  was  no  longer  listening. 

Dusk  had  covered  the  windowpanes ;  the  shabby 
111 


SACRIFICE 

furniture  had  turned  nebulous.  In  these  shadows 
Parr  heard  the  words,  meditatively  pronounced: 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  learn  Arabic." 

"You,  ma'am!" 

He  gaped  at  her  vague,  pearly  face,  as  if  she 
had  suggested  some  enormity.  It  was  an  ugly 
language,  all  bubbling  and  snorting.  And  a  very 
hard  one  to  learn ! 

"A  hard  one?  Good.  Can  yon  find  me  a 
teacher  somewhere?" 

The  door  opened  to  frame  a  careworn  woman  in 
a  gingham  dress,  who  said  shyly  to  Lilla : 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  ma'am.  I  thought "  And 

to  Parr,  "I'll  keep  your  supper  warm." 

With  her  sleek  bandeaux  of  lusterless  brown 
hair,  and  her  thick,  straight  eyebrows  meeting 
above  her  nose,  she  looked  like  some  model  for  a 
fifteenth  century  Italian  painter,  who  had  suddenly 
faded  and  now  was  exiled  from  the  studio  to  the 
region  of  pots  and  pans.  She  was  Parr's  niece. 

As  Lilla  departed  down  the  black  staircase  redo 
lent  of  boiled  cabbage,  she  reflected  that  these 
surroundings  were  going  to  contaminate  the  sad 
pleasure  that  she  planned  to  obtain  through  Parr. 
Her  instinctive  epicureanism  demanded  that  the 
scene  of  these  evocations  should  not  be  sordid. 
Besides,  it  was  intolerable  that  Parr,  of  whom 
Lawrence  had  been  fond,  should  not  be  better 
housed. 

So  Lilla  moved  Parr  and  his  astounded  relatives 
112 


SACRIFICE 

to  a  pretty  little  dwelling  in  Greenwich  Village, 
with  waxed  floors,  chintz  hangings  at  the  windows, 
and  Delia  Eobbia  plaques  in  the  sitting  room. 
After  seeing  them  installed,  she  said  to  herself : 
"Poor  things!    How  abominable  I  am!" 
At  any  rate,  there  was  nothing  abominable  in 
her  having  sent  Parr  to  a  surgeon  who,  though  he 
doubted  that  the  patient  would  ever  be  quite  well 
again,  guaranteed  to  abolish  the  crutches. 

On  the  day  that  Parr  was  to  go  to  the  hospital, 
Lilla  entered  the  Greenwich  Village  house  to  find  a 
stranger  sitting  under  the  Delia  Bobbia  plaques. 
He  rose. with  a  graceful  dignity,  bowed,  and  stood 
gazing  down  at  her  out  of  dark,  lustrous  eyes. 

Parr  explained  that  this  stranger  was  prepared 
to  give  lessons  in  Arabic. 

He  was  in  his  early  twenties,  though  one  did  not 
immediately  appreciate  his  youth  because  of  a 
very  delicate  black  beard  that  softened,  without 
concealing,  the  lines  of  his  chin.  His  features  ap 
peared  to  have  been  chiseled  with  great  precision 
out  of  some  pale,  tan-colored  marble ;  his  nose  was 
long  and  straight;  his  full  eyelids  gave  him  a 
slightly  languorous  look;  but  his  lips,  as  sharply 
defined  as  a  gem  of  carnelian,  seemed  somehow  to 
be  ascetic  as  well  as  sensual — virile  as  well  as 
effete.  Tall  and  spare,  with  small  hands,  he  wore 
an  outrageously  inappropriate,  ill-fitting  sack 
suit.  To  Lilla  it  was  as  if  some  romantic  young 
character  from  the  tales  of  Scheherazade  had  been 

113 


SACRIFICE 

degraded  for  his  gallantries  in  this  hideous  attire. 

His  name  was  Hamoud-bin-Said.  He  was  an 
Oman  Arab  from  Zanzibar. 

Parr  had  found  him  in  a  Turkish  cafe  in  Wash 
ington  Street,  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  succes 
sive  misfortunes,  and  by  that  sense  of  fatality 
which  benumbs  the  Arab  of  vitiated  stock.  For 
little  by  little  the  soft,  moist  airs  of  Zanzibar  had 
corroded  the  spirit  of  the  Oman  Arabs,  who  had 
sailed  thither,  in  the  old  days,  from  their  own 
rugged  land,  in  great  fierceness  and  ruthlessness, 
unconquered  by  men,  and  incapable  of  foreseeing 
that  some  day  they  would  be  vanquished  by  per 
fumed  breezes.  As  for  Hamoud-bin-Said,  he  was 
typical  of  his  kind  to-day  in  that  humid  paradise, 
where  want  of  energy,  and  lack  of  discipline  or 
any  well-defined  purpose,  affected  even  the  young. 

"As  you  see  him,  ma'am,  he's  down  on  his  luck. 
But  I  think  he  has  seen " 

The  young  Arab  remained  impassive,  erect,  as 
handsome  as  a  faintly  tinted  statue  of  Pride,  yet 
pathetic  in  his  salt-and-pepper  suit.  And  Lilla, 
despite  his  costume  and  his  errand,  divined  in  him 
a  certain  subtle  relationship  to  herself,  received 
an  impression  of  "aristocratic"  feeling  perhaps 
derived  from  a  consciousness  of  superior  birth 
and  fortune.  Parr  need  not  have  told  her — espe 
cially  in  so  audible  a  stage  whisper — that  the 
stranger  had  "seen  better  days." 

"You  speak  English?"  she  inquired. 
114 


SACRIFICE 

The  Arab's  limpid  eyes  were  slowly  infused 
with  light.  His  clear-cut  carnelian  lips  started 
apart ;  but  he  did  not  answer  until  the  last  vibra 
tions  of  her  voice  had  died  away,  like  the  echo  of 
a  silver  bell  in  a  landscape  that  one  had  believed 
to  be  empty  of  human  life.  In  a  low,  grave,  muffled 
tone,  he  said: 

"A  little.    Enough,  perhaps,  madam,  I  hope." 

And  after  a  moment,  though  his  face  did  not 
change,  he  gave  a  sharp  sigh,  somehow  the  last 
thing  that  one  had  expected  from  him. 

All  at  once  as  she  stared  at  him  she  had  a  feel 
ing  of  unreality.  Why  were  they  three  standing 
here?  A  whim,  transformed  into  a  command  by 
a  vision  of  a  Saharan  coffee  house,  had  material 
ized  this  abjectly  clothed  young  human  exotic  in 
the  midst  of  the  blue-and-white  Delia  Eobbias! 
But  she  had  a  feeling  that  she  had  stood  here  be 
fore  with  him,  or  else  had  dreamed  of  this,  per 
haps,  in  one  of  those  psychopathological  moments 
that  have  a  prophetic  quality.  This  sensation  of 
recurrence — or  else,  this  impression  of  the  un 
avoidable — gave  her  a  twinge  of  awe.  Was  every 
thing,  even  a  baggy  young  teacher  of  Arabic, 
foreordained?  "Am  I,"  she  thought,  with  a  sort 
of  comic  despair,  "doomed  by  fate,  as  well  as  by 
my  own  foolishness,  to  learn  a  language  like  the 
snarling  of  camels  ?  Or  is  it  that  his  old  Allah  has 
picked  me  out  to  tide  him  along  for  a  while  f ' '  She 
wanted  to  laugh  aloud,  at  the  restlessness,  super- 

115 


SACRIFICE 

stition,  weakness,  and  folly  tKat  had  composed  her 
life,  and  had  now  produced  this  egregious  inter 
view.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  emotion  she  was 
touched  by  his  statuesque  face,  with  its  glimmering 
suggestion  of  gentility  cast  down,  of  pride  lost  in 
a  dread  that  she  might  not  find  him  worth  her 
charity. 

"I  shall  expect  you  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays, 
and  Fridays  at  eleven  o  'clock. " 

He  bowed  in  silence.  She  felt  his  relief  that 
was  mingled  with  a  sense  of  abasement;  and  she 
wondered  what  he  had  been,  that  he  should  suffer 
from  the  prospect  of  turning  an  honest  penny. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SHE  received  a  note  from  Brantome,  informing 
her  that  if  she  went  to  a  certain  orchestral  con 
cert  she  would  hear  a  piece  that  David  Verne  had 
written  at  the  height  of  his  promise. 

To  Lilla  it  was  a  new  voice  in  the  world  of 
music,  ultra-modern,  yet  incorrigibly  melodic,  giv 
ing  utterance  to  immemorial  emotions  with  great 
nobility.  Those  passages  of  almost  intolerable 
aspiration  were  underlaid  with  dissonant  har 
monies,  as  if  hell  itself  had  poured  all  its  allure 
ments  into  tone,  to  engulf  the  theme  that  was 
struggling  to  soar  upward.  It  became  a  terrific 
combat,  in  which  beauty  was  to  be  recognized  in 
sublimated  form,  striving  to  end  its  likeness  to 
another  beauty,  seductive  in  a  different,  monstrous 
way,  yet  all  too  similar.  It  was  a  battle  translated 
into  sound,  so  enlarged  and  enriched  by  the  imagi 
nation  of  the  composer  that  a  universe,  instead  of 
one  soul,  se.emed  to  be  involved  in  it. 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  piercing  blare  of 
brass  there  was  a  moment  of  chaos ;  then  the  theme, 
as  if  scaring  free,  lost  itself  in  extraordinary  alti- 

117 


SACRIFICE 

tildes,  borne  np  by  a  whirl  of  violin  notes.   A  crash 
of  cymbals  ended  everything. 

When  she  roused  herself  at  last,  Lilla  perceived 
that  the  concert  hall  was  empty  except  for  the  ush 
ers  who  were  turning  up  the  seats. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


suggested  that  she  master 
first  the  most  difficult  consonants  —  "ha,"  to  be 
pronounced  with  the  force  at  the  back  of  the  pal 
ate,  "dad"  and  "ta,"  emphasized  by  pressing  the 
tongue  far  back,  and  the  strong  guttural  "en." 
These  w.ere  sounds  that  had  no  association  with 
any  in  English,  French,  German,  or  Italian.  Lilla 
was  filled  with  dismay. 

"But  this  poor  young  man  lost  from  the  Arabian 
Nights  must  live,"  she  reflected,  eyeing  the  salt- 
and-pepper  suit  with  secret  horror. 

He  was  extremely  neat,  however  ;  and  his  small 
right  hand,  with  which  he  turned  the  pages  of  the 
textbook,  was  as  well  cared  for  as  hers.  He 
brought  with  him  into  the  library  an  almost  im 
perceptible  scent  of  burnt  aloes.  His  grave  com 
posure  sometimes  made  her  forget  his  youth. 

Now  and  then,  the  lesson  finished,  she  detained 
him  in  talk,  out  of  curiosity. 

From  his  father  he  had  inherited  a  house  in 
Zanzibar,  a  mansion,  indeed,  of  coraline  limestone 
fitted  with  doors  of  palmwood  elegantly  earved. 
At  the  same  time  he  had  fallen  heir  to  a  grove  of 

119 


SACRIFICE 

clove  trees ;  in  short,  he  had  been  wealthy.  There 
had  been  no  end  of  hospitality  in  his  home.  In  the 
large,  white  rooms  strewn  with  Persian  carpets, 
where  there  were  no  pictures,  but  a  variety  of 
clocks,  the  slaves  were  always  bringing  in  to  visi 
tors  an  excess  of  refreshment — stews  of  mutton, 
fine  soups,  cakes,  sherbets,  Turkish  delight.  The 
world  had  been  a  good  place,  full  of  friends. 

And  there  was  no  spot  as  fair  as  Zanzibar! 
The  hills,  crowned  with  palms,  embraced  a  sea  as 
deeply  blue  as  lapis-lazuli.  The  clove  trees  were 
covered  with  pink  blossoms  whose  fragrance  en 
tered  the  city.  It  was  a  place  of  brilliant  sunshine 
and  purple  shadows,  of  gray  walls  over  which  pea 
cocks  hung  their  tails,  of  mysterious  stairways,  and 
latticed  windows  behind  which  ladies  sat  peering 
through  their  embroidered  face  screens  resemb 
ling  semicircular  candle  shades;  and  there  was 
always  a  marvelous  clamor  in  the  streets,  and  si 
lence  in  the  patios  full  of  flowers.  At  dusk,  one 
still  saw,  sometimes,  the  daughters  of  the  rich 
hurrying  through  the  alleys,  muffled  up,  escorted 
by  slaves  with  lanterns,  going  to  call  on  their 
women  friends,  leaving  behind  them  a  trail  of  per 
fumes. 

"It  was  in  Zanzibar,"  thought  Lilla,  "that  Law 
rence  found  my  picture. " 

And  gazing  as  if  indifferently  at  a  vaseful  of 
roses,  she  asked,  with  a  feeling  of  suffocation: 

"Why  did  you  leave  there?" 
120 


SACRIFICE 

He  did  not  reply.  When  she  turned  her  eyes 
toward  him  he  appeared  to  be  listening  almost 
drowsily  to  something  that  she  could  not  hear,  or 
else,  since  his  sensitive-looking  nostrils  were  di 
lated,  to  be  relishing  some  sweet  odor — perhaps 
the  smell  of  the  roses.  She  received  an  impres 
sion  of  deliberate,  yet  somnolent,  sensnous  enjoy 
ment;  and  she  recalled  having  seen  long  ago,  in 
a  doorway  in  Tunis,  this  same  expression  on  the 
face  of  a  beggar  who  had  just  been  smoking 
hasheesh. 

He  gave  a  start,  and  looked  like  a  man  who  in 
his  sleep  has  fallen  off  a  roof.  But  immediately, 
lowering  his  full  eyelids,  he  became  the  handsome 
statue,  or  perhaps  the  delicately  bearded  effigy,  in 
tan-colored  wax,  of  a  young  caliph  who  had  in 
curred  the  hatred  of  the  jinn. 

It  was  simple.    He  had  squandered  his  fortune. 

It  had  sifted  through  his  fingers  like  sand,  the 
price  of  one  clove  tree  after  another,  till  the  whole 
grove  was  gone.  Then  the  Hindu  money  lenders 
had  got  the  ancestral  house.  The  friends  had  de 
parted  to  make  merry  elsewhere ;  the  gazelle-eyed 
girls  with  short,  silk  dresses  and  frilled  pantalettes 
had  turned  cold ;  and,  in  the  market,  little  boys  had 
sung  songs  about  the  ruined  young  man.  Burning 
with  resentment  and  shame,  he  had  sailed  away  in 
a  dhow — it  .had  landed  him  at  Beira — believing 
that  he  would  hate  Zanzibar  forever. 

When  he  began  to  starve,  he  joined  the  safari 
121 


SACBIFICE 

of  a  Muscat  trader,  traveled  up-country,  returned 
to  the  coast  sick  with  fever.  Late  one  night,  while 
walking  below  the  sea  wall,  yearning  for  Zanzi 
bar,  he  saw  a  man  running,  from  time  to  time 
throwing  something  into  the  sea,  and  another  man 
running  silently  in  pursuit  with  a  knife  in  his  hand. 
He  waded  along  the  shore,  and  presently  found  in 
the  surf  a  bag  of  gold-dust.  Next  morning  he 
slipped  aboard  a  north-bound  coaster.  Instead  of 
calling  at  Zanzibar,  this  time  it  went  clear  to 
Suez! 

In  Suez  a  fortune-telling  dervish,  perhaps  be 
cause  he  had  just  seen  an  American  pass  by,  told 
Hamoud-bin-Said  that  his  wanderings  would  take 
him  to  America.  Hamoud  accepted  the  words  of 
the  holy  man  as  a  second-hand  pronouncement  of 
God.  At  that  time  there  was  even  a  ship  at  Suez 
bound  for  New  York. 

"It  was  my  destiny,"  he  averred,  sitting  mo 
tionless  in  his  atrocious  suit,  so  young  yet  so  full 
of  bizarre  recollections,  impassive  at  the  inevi 
table  thought  that  this  "  destiny "  of  his  might  be 
preparing  events  stranger  still  than  those  which 
he  had  endured. 


CHAPTER  XXH 

'A  PALLID,  black-haired  woman  with  pendent 
earrings — a  woman  who  rather  resembled  Anna 
Zanidov — was  playing  a  sea-piece  by  MacDowell 
in  the  light  of  a  tall  lamp.  The  hall  door  swnng 
open;  the  unsympathetic  face  and  sqnare  shoul 
ders  of  David  Verne's  attendant  appeared  above 
the  back  of  the  wheel  chair.  TKe  invalid,  looking 
up  at  Brantome,  mnrnrared: 

"Let  him  pnt  me  in  the  alcove,  where  it's  dark 
enongh  for  yonr  friends  to  forget  that  I'm  here. 
And  don't  bother  about  me." 

"What!"  Brantome  protested.  "I'm  not  even 
to  bring  a  beautiful  lady  to  talk  to  you?" 

"It's  rather  late  for  talks  with  beautiful  la 
dies,"  David  Verne  replied  in  his  weak,  dull  voice. 
"Besides,  it's  music  that  I've  chosen  to  torment 
myself  with  this  afternoon.  Where  is  she?"  And 
when  Brantome  had  nodded  toward  Lilla.  "Ah, 
she  was  here  once  before." 

Lilla  wore  a  brown  coat  frock  heavily  trimmed 
with  fur ;  her  brown  velvet  hat,  very  wide  across 
the  forehead,  was  brightened  by  a  rosette  of  silver 
ribbon.  The  black  pearls  in  the  lobes  of  her  ears, 

123 


SACRIFICE 

just  visible  below  her  fluffy  brown  hair,  completed 
the  harmony  of  her  costume  with  her  person,  while 
bestowing  upon  her  face  a  maturity  in  contrast 
with  the  invalid's  youthfulness — which  all  his  suf 
ferings  and  despairs  had  not  eclipsed. 

When  she  had  sat  down  beside  him,  he  regarded 
her  with  a  sort  of  suppressed  aversion. 

The  attendant,  a  bullet-headed  fellow  with  Scan 
dinavian  cheek-bones,  leaned  down,  looking  fla 
grantly  solicitous,  and  inquired  in  unctuous  tones 
if  there  was  "anything  else  at  present."  At  this 
question  David  Verne  appeared  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  a  dreary  contempt.  He  did  not  trouble  him 
self  to  reply ;  and  the  attendant  went  away,  walk 
ing  cautiously  on  the  sides  of  his  feet,  the  back 
of  his  head  somehow  suggesting  that  he  was  grit 
ting  his  teeth. 

Lilla  surprised  herself  by  saying: 

"Why  do  you  have  that  man?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  is  appallingly  stupid."  He 
paused,  with  an  effect  of  still  more  profound  ex 
haustion,  then  breathed,  "He  hates  me,  no  doubt 
because  I  resent  his  stupidity.  I  resent  stupid 
ity,"  he  repeated,  giving  her  a  glance  of  weak 
alarm,  as  if  wondering,  "Are  you  stupid,  too?" 
He  seemed  reassured  by  his  scrutiny  of  her.  A 
coldness  began  to  melt  out  of  his  eyes. 

Then  he  looked  astonished,  rather  like  a  child 
that  is  unexpectedly  led  up  before  a  Christmas 
tree. 

124 


SACRIFICE 

Now  she  had  analyzed  the  most  touching  impres 
sion  that  David  Verne  produced — an  impression 
as  of  a  child  who  has  come  into  the  world  with  a 
heart  full  of  blitheness  and  trust,  only  to  be  mis 
treated.  A  child,  but  an  extremely  precocious 
one,  with  a  child's  round  chin,  but  with  a  brow  of 
genius ;  with  eyes  accustomed  to  visions,  but  with 
lips  almost  too  delicate  to  belong  to  a  man.  An 
other  incongruity  was  presented  in  his  complex 
ion — bronzed  as  though  by  the  sun,  mockingly  be 
stowing  on  him  one  of  the  aspects  of  health. 

When  he  listened  to  music  suddenly  he  became 
adult.  There  appeared  in  his  face  a  glimpse  of 
a  masculine,  severely  critical  soul,  a  nature  to  be 
satisfied  with  little  less  than  perfection.  And  no 
doubt  it  was  this  habit  of  stern  analysis,  involun 
tarily  carried  over  from  art  into  life,  that  had 
helped  to  make  him  "impatient  of  stupidity." 

The  black-haired  woman  at  the  piano  was  at 
tempting  Beethoven. 

* '  Talk  to  me, ' '  said  David  Verne.  1 ' 1  don 't  wish 
to  hear  this." 

He  added  that  Beethoven  was  intolerable  on  the 
piano — a  composer  who  had  never  had  a  thought 
that  was  not  orchestral. 

"Like  myself,"  he  vouchsafed,  with  that  smile 
of  a  mistreated  child.  "I,  too,  thought  orches- 
trally.  There  was  no  group  of  instruments  rich 
enough  to  suit  my  ambitions,  just  as  the  scale  was 
too  poor  for  what  I  wished  to  express.  A  tone 

125 


SACRIFICE 

speech  inadequate  to  describe  what  I  had  to  de 
scribe — do  you  know  what  I'm  talking  about?" 

"Yes.'' 

"Never  mind.    It  is  all  over." 

He  sat  in  the  wheel  chair  in  so  collapsed  a  pose 
that  he  seemed  subjected  to  some  exceptional  pull 
of  gravitation.  His  bronzed  hands,  on  the  chair 
arms,  appeared  to  be  welded  to  the  brown  wood ; 
his  head,  resting  against  the  chair  back,  never 
turned.  But  his  troubled  eyes,  stealing  round  in 
their  sockets,  surprised  on  Lilla's  countenance  a 
look  as  if  all  her  compassions  had  been  united  to 
find  the  fading  young  genius  as  their  congenial 
object. 

It  was  hard  to  talk  to  him,  since  every  topic 
must  lead  to  some  interest  that  he  was  relinquish 
ing.  His  doom,  hanging  over  them  like  a  black 
cloud,  stifled  all  those  gleams  of  enthusiasm  which 
normally  would  have  illumined  such  a  conversa 
tion.  But  presently  he  forgot  himself  in  watch 
ing  her  moving  lips,  in  gazing  at  her  hair,  her 
throat,  her  hands,  in  letting  his  eyes  embrace,  with 
reluctance,  all  her  singularity  which  was  made 
doubly  exquisite  by  the  fastidiousness  of  her  cos 
tume.  While  he  was  inhaling  her  perfume,  he  lis 
tened  with  a  blank  look  to  the  silvery  cadence  of 
her  voice. 

At  last  he  asked  her: 

"Do  you  come  here  often?" 

"Oh,  no." 

126 


SACRIFICE 

1 '  Why  not  ? ' '  He  stared  at  the  abandoned  piano. 
*  *  Why  not  every  week  ? ' '  And,  in  a  soft,  impulsive 
rush  of  words,  blurred  by  haste,  and  maybe  by  in 
tention,  "I  have  so  few  weeks  left." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

As  week  followed  week,  it  was  evident  that 
David  Verne  watched  her  and  listened  to  her  as 
he  watched  and  listened  to  no  other  person,  with 
an  attention  as  though  there  were  something 
unique  in  her  most  trivial  utterance,  and  with  a 
sadness  as  though  she  symbolized  all  the  allure 
ments  of  life,  from  which  he  must  presently  de 
part.  And  at  last  it  became  evident  that  he  had 
found  in  this  relationship  a  charm  more  piercing 
than  if  their  association  could  have  had  a  differ 
ent  outcome.  For  him,  no  doubt,  their  hours  to 
gether  were  at  last  suffused  with  the  mournful 
glory  that  concludes  a  sunset — more  valuable,  to 
the  romantically  imaginative  soul,  than  the  flam 
ing  vigor  of  mid-day.  To  have  found  her,  to  real 
ize  that  she  must  remain  as  an  angel  hovering 
high  over  an  inferno,  to  perceive  that  he  must 
pass  from  this  radiance  into  the  shades,  filled  him 
with  a  gloomy  ecstasy  and  a  pathetic  gratitude. 

A  time  came  when  his  armor  of  misanthropy 
crumbled  away;  and  in  the  shadowy  alcove  of 
Brantome's  living  room  he  confessed  to  her. 

He  told  her  that  she  had  covered  the  page  on 
128 


SACRIFICE 

which  Finis  was  already  written  with  a  glow  of 
gold,  as  though,  at  the  last  moment,  a  shutter 
opening  on  a  paradise  had  swung  ajar. 

He  declared  that  she  could  not  imagine  the 
blackness  that  had  surrounded  him  at  her  first 
appearance.  His  heart  had  been  cased  in  ice ;  he 
had  hated  every  one.  Then  she  had  come  holding 
beauty  in  one  hand  and  tenderness  in  the  other. 
Although  he  believed  in  nothing  but  a  mechanistic 
universe,  he  had  thought  of  those  figures,  half 
woman  and  half  goddess,  that  descend  from  an 
other  plane,  in  the  old  mystical  tales,  to  lure  one 
back  to  faith  with  a  celestial  smile.  He  protested 
that  he  was  not  far  from  regaining  that  deep- 
rooted  belief  of  his  race,  of  which  Brantome  had 
spoken — the  idea  that  woman  might  be  angelic. 

He  even  said: 

11  Suppose  your  kindness  were  the  reflection  of 
something  still  more  lovely,  which  we  cannot  see 
with  these  eyes?" 

He  went  on  to  other,  similar  rhapsodies,  such 
phrases  as  bubble  from  the  lips  of  those  who,  in 
the  extremity  of  despair,  exhausted  by  their  suf 
ferings,  become,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  like  little 
children.  Amid  the  shadows  of  the  alcove  his  eyes 
shone;  and  even  his  body,  helpless  in  the  wheel 
chair,  quivered  as  if  with  new  life. 

"If  you  had  appeared  sooner!  The  music  I 
might  have  written !  But  then,  everything  would 

129 


SACRIFICE 

be  different.     There  would  have  been  no  reason 
for  your  pity." 

On  the  hearth  the  log  that  was  nearly  consumed 
fell  with  a  shower  of  sparks,  shot  forth  one  last 
flame,  which  brightened  the  room  that  had  become 
for  a  moment  a  whole  world.  The  light  flashed 
over  the  many  rows  of  books,  which  made  Lilla 
imagine  a  vast  human  audience,  all  aglow  from  a 
final  blaze  of  genius. 

She  leaned  toward  him,  staring  into  his  eyes  as 
one  who  would  summon  from  a  sepulchre  some 
thing  more  precious  than  love. 

He  understood  her,  and  assented: 

"Yes,  what  a  victory,  eh?  Even  on  the  thresh 
old  of  death!  And  even  though  the  inspiration 
was  the  embodiment  of  pity  only!  But  men  be 
fore  me — though  not  so  far  gone,  perhaps — have 
transmitted  to  the  world  the  songs  that  rose  in 
their  hearts  as  a  result  of  unconsummated,  even 
unrequited,  love.  Who  knows?  That,  too,  may 
come  just  in  time.  I  may  write  one  more  song." 

Before  her  mind's  eye  there  sprang  out  the  full 
picture  of  her  part  in  such  a  triumph. 

Was  it  not  she  who  would  virtually  be  the  crea 
tive  force  ?  Had  he  not  become,  in  these  last  days 
of  his,  a  shattered  instrument  that  she,  alone,  could 
make  musical  again?  And  her  long-thwarted  as 
pirations  coalesced  into  this  desire,  in  which,  it 
may  be,  her  compassion  was  disorganized  by  ego- 

130 


SACRIFICE 

tism,  her  compunctions  swallowed  up  in  ruthless- 
ness. 

"  You  will  do  it !"  she  cried  softly,  leaning  closer 
still,  holding  his  hand  more  tightly,  blinding  him 
by  the  glorification  of  her  smile. 

Hardly  knowing  what  she  was  saying,  finding  at 
the  tip  of  her  tongue  all  the  arguments  that  had 
failed  to  help  her  in  her  griefs,  she  spoke  of  the 
prodigies  accomplished  by  will,  the  triumphs  of 
faith  over  fate,  the  miracles  of  love. 

"Of  love?"  he  repeated. 

The  log  on  the  hearth  was  ashes.  But  that 
morning  there  had  drifted  through  the  city  a  mes 
sage  from  the  country — of  a  new  spring,  which 
would  not  be  like  nature's  previous  unfoldments, 
yet  could  not,  for  all  its  subtle  differences,  be  de 
nied.  Was  it  something  like  that  in  Lilla,  or 
only  a  tender  duplicity  born  of  this  new  ruthless- 
ness  of  hers,  that  made  her  press  his  limp  hand 
against  her  kindling  cheek? 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  a  romance  as  nearly  incorporeal  as  mor 
tal  romance  may  be,  almost  as  though  one  of  the 
participants  had  already  passed  beyond  the  sen 
suous  world. 

If  Brantome  was  not  at  home  they  had  the  place 
to  themselves.  The  fire  no  longer  burned  on  the 
hearth;  but  the  sunshine  of  the  lengthening  days 
conquered  the  shadows  that  had  lingered  here  all 
winter.  And  now  the  wheel  chair  was  rolled  to 
the  open  window,  so  that  David  might  see,  beyond 
the  trees  of  the  square  and  above  the  cornices  of 
the  tall  houses,  the  inexhaustible  improvisations 
of  nature  in  the  western  sky. 

"You  have  changed  everything,"  he  affirmed, 
drinking  in  her  beauty,  her  elegance  that  was  al 
ways  presented  to  him  in  some  new  guise,  her  in 
variable  manifestation  of  tenderness.  "How  did 
it  happen?  You,  so  intensely  in  the  midst  of  life, 
so  lovely,  who  might  so  easily  find  elsewhere " 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  it  was  the  almost  phan 
tasmal  quality  of  their  communion  that  made  it 
possible. 

Yet  now  and  then,  for  a  moment,  she  forgot  his 
132 


SACRIFICE 

infirmity.  He  became  the  young  hero  of  an  idyl 
lic  scene  such  as  those  that  seem  attractive  enough 
in  adolescence.  But  unlike  those  heroes  he  spoke 
only  of  the  moment,  since  it  was  only  the  moment 
of  which  he  could  be  sure.  "You  are  here!"  his 
eyes  said  to  her,  as  she  entered  the  room.  "I  have 
this  hour  at  least.  Nothing  else  matters."  Then, 
by  aid  of  the  sunset,  the  warm  breeze  in  his  face, 
the  flowers  on  the  table,  the  fragrance  of  her  per 
fume  and  the  smoothness  of  her  hand,  he  tried  to 
drown  himself  in  a  sea  of  sensation,  like  one  who 
listens,  in  a  glamour  of  stained  glass  and  a  cloud 
of  incense,  to  the  protracted  sweetness  of  an  organ 
playing  the  Nunc  Dimittis. 

Sometimes  he  would  say: 

"When  I  am  gone  you  will  be  as  fair  as  ever. 
That  is  good.  The  ancients  who  entered  their  tem 
ples  to  worship  the  goddess  must  have  redoubled 
their  love  with  the  thought  that  the  beauty  of  her 
marble  person  would  survive  them." 

Or  perhaps : 

"Yes,  you  will  still  be  young.  And  presently — 
no,  I  shall  pretend  that  you  will  never  turn  to 
another. ' ' 

He  thought  her  ensuing  look  of  sadness  was  a 
reproach  to  him ;  but  she  was  reproaching  herself. 

But  here  wras  a  miracle.  The  invalid  had  ceased 
to  decline  in  health.  And  that  declension,  which 
formerly  had  been  uninterrupted,  seemed  stopped 
just  by  the  hand  that  she  had  held  out  to  him  on 

133 


SACRIFICE 

that  first  full  day  of  spring — by  the  slender  hand 
that  had  owed  its  beauty  to  its  apparent  useless- 
ness. 

Then  he  told  her  that  he  had  begun  to  jot  down, 
in  feeble  signs,  some  scraps  of  music. 

That  evening,  as  she  drove  home,  the  city  seemed 
hung  with  banners.  ' '  Ah,  fate ! ' '  she  cried,  clench 
ing  her  fists,  and  uttering  a  savage  laugh  of  de 
fiance.  She  entered  her  house  radiant,  erect, 
shining  with  triumph.  In  the  black-and-white  hall, 
at  the  entrance  to  the  drawing-room,  a  man  stood 
before  her,  tanned,  lean  from  physical  hardships, 
strange-looking  and  yet  familiar.  Instead  of  a 
small  mustache  intended  to  be  debonaire,  he  had  a 
heavy  one ;  his  shoulders  were  wider  and  straighter 
than  formerly ;  he  advanced  with  a  quick,  swinging 
step. 

"Cornie  Rysbroek!" 

She  laid  her  palms  on  the  new  shoulders  of  this 
friend  of  her  childhood,  and  flooded  him  with  her 
victorious  smile. 

"What  have  you  done  to  yourself?"  she 
laughed,  rather  wildly.  "Where  do  you  come 
from?  India?" 

"I  went  on  to  China." 

He  had  traveled  up  the  Yangtze  River,  had 
crossed  Tse-Chouan,  had  reached  the  borders  of 
Thibet.  Her  happy  look  continued  to  embrace 
him ;  but  she  hardly  heard  what  he  said.  She  did 
not  perceive  that  he  had  undertaken  that  journey 

134 


SACRIFICE 

in  imitation  of  the  other — perhaps  in  the  hope  of 
finding  in  those  distant,  hard  places  the  secret  of 
Lawrence  Teck's  attractiveness.  And,  in  fact,  he 
looked  stronger  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  body.  The 
hypochondriac,  the  timid  dilettante,  seemed  to  have 
slunk  away;  in  his  place  stood  a  man  who  had 
forced  himself,  against  all  his  natural  instincts, 
to  endure  extremes  of  cold  and  heat,  dirt  and 
famine,  hardship  and  danger.  Even  now  his  face 
was  calm;  but  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from 
shining  at  her. 

1 1  You  '11  stay  to  dinner,  Cornie.    Just  us. ' ' 
From  the  doorway  she  came  rushing  back  to 
throw  her  arms  round  him,  and  cry  like  a  delighted 
child: 

' 'Dear  old  Cornie !    I 'm  so  happy ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXV 

As  for  David  Verne,  despite  the  extraordinary 
prostration  in  which  Lilla  had  found  him,  it 
seemed  that  he  had  not  passed  beyond  the  vivify 
ing  powers  of  love,  which  sometimes  appear  to 
change  the  body,  as  well  as  the  mind,  into  a  new 
organism  for  a  while.  Week  after  week,  to  the  be 
wilderment — one  might  almost  say  the  consterna 
tion — of  the  physician,  he  refused  to  imitate  the 
customary  progress  of  that  disease  which  had  been 
diagnosed  as  his.  And  while  he  acknowledged  that 
this  phenomenon  must  presently  end,  David  knew 
that  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  love  had  proved 
stronger  than  death. 

To  prolong  these  hours  in  the  transfigured 
world  of  sense !  To  steal  from  oblivion  one  more 
summer  of  which  she  would  be  the  warmth,  the 
fragrance,  the  unprecedented  beauty! 

In  appearing  to  him  she  had  embodied  all  that 
seductiveness  which  he  had  formerly  perceived  at 
random,  f  ragmentarily  and  vaguely,  in  a  change  of 
light  on  the  sea,  in  a  spread  of  landscape,  in  the 
grace  of  animals  or  the  refinements  of  art,  or  in 
those  streams  of  consciousness  that  flow  as  the 

136 


SACRIFICE 

senses  are  touched  by  some  reminiscent  odor,  ap 
parition,  or  sound.  She  was  the  whole,  dear,  fad 
ing  world  compressed  into  one  shape,  as  the  god 
desses  of  ancient  times  personified  blindingly  a 
host  of  precious  elements  that  had  previously  been 
diffuse.  And  since  she  was  so,  he  determined,  with 
all  this  new  mental  energy  evoked  by  love,  to  cling 
to  her  another  day,  another  week  or  season,  like 
a  drowning  man  who,  as  he  sinks,  clutches  at  a 
flower  hanging  over  the  water,  with  the  thought, 
"In  this  flower,  whose  petals  hold  as  much  won 
der  as  the  whole  universe,  there  is  surely  strength 
enough  to  sustain  me  till  I  have  filled  my  throat 
with  one  more  draught  of  life ! ' ' 

Inevitably  all  this  fervor  and  pathos,  gratitude 
and  adoration,  were  transmuted  into  a  conscious 
ness  of  music.  He  felt  ever  more  strongly  the  ar 
tist's  need  of  expression.  Since  he  had  never  pre 
viously  known  such  exaltation — or,  indeed,  such 
dejection — the  music  that  he  finally  produced,  his 
physical  weakness  notwithstanding,  was  music 
such  as  he  had  never  written  before. 

At  Brantome's,  when  that  piece  was  to  be  played 
for  the  first  time,  he  sat  in  his  wheel  chair  suffo 
cated  by  sudden  doubts,  as  if  on  trial  for  his  life. 
Lilla  sat  beside  him,  her  hand  on  his.  No  one  else 
was  there  except  Brantome,  who  bent  over  the 
manuscript  his  haggard  old  face,  revealing  nearly 
as  much  agitation  as  did  David. 

At  last,  raising  his  head,  the  critic  murmured : 
137 


SACRIFICE 

'  *  You  think  this  is  going  to  be  easy  for  me  ?  Re 
flect  on  what  I  nrast  do.  To  satisfy  you  I  must 
take  the  rigidity  out  of  all  these  ink  marks,  restore 
to  this  score  the  emotions  that  you  felt  in  writing 
it." 

David  responded: 

"The  emotions  that  I  felt  in  writing  it  are  not 
there;  for  the  idea  always  loses  its  original  form 
the  moment  it  is  seized  by  the  pen.  That  is  the 
first  loss.  The  second  comes  now.  You  cannot 
help  it.  It  is  the  old  misfortune,  the  inability  to 
transmit  what  one  feels,  the  isolation  of  the  human 
soul.  But  nobody  could  play  as  well  as  you  what 's 
left  of  those  thoughts  of  mine." 

The  bullet-headed  attendant  appeared  beside  the 
wheel  chair,  a  bottle  of  medicine  and  a  glass  of 
water  in  his  hands.  With  that  pretentious  solici 
tude  of  his,  he  uttered: 

"It  is  time " 

David  Verne  gave  a  shudder. 

"  Ah !  At  this  moment !  Will  you  get  out  of  the 
room?"  And  when  the  attendant  had  gone,  "Is 
he,  can  he  be,  so  stupid?  I  really  think  he  does 
these  things  on  purpose." 

Brantome  poised  his  hands  above  the  keyboard, 
leaned  forward  to  peer  at  a  legend  scrawled  faintly 
in  the  corner  of  the  page,  then,  turning  round  on 
the  piano  bench,  cast  at  Lilla : 

"Rose-covered  Cypresses." 

"What?"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  start. 
138 


SACEIFICE 

"  He  has  called  it  that. " 

The  old  Frenchman  began  to  play. 

Not  a  song  after  all,  but  a  piano  concerto,  it 
described  in  tone  that  goal  of  all  human  longings, 
the  conquest  of  tragedy. 

But  this  music,  although  gradually  made  replete 
with  victory,  was  not  to  end  in  major  chords  of 
triumph.  The  sadness  that  seemed,  at  the  begin 
ning,  unassuageable,  continued  to  the  end,  but— 
and  herein  lay  the  victory — became  ever  more  ex 
quisite.  For  this  was  the  utterance  of  a  man  who 
having  had  his  life  transformed  by  love  must  soon 
leave  that  love  behind  him;  this  glory  that  had 
descended  upon  his  sadness  was  such  a  glory  as 
fills  the  sky  for  a  little  while  before  the  inrush  of 
dusk.  At  the  conclusion,  it  was  as  if  in  the  gor- 
geousness  of  a  sunset  the  roses  covering  the 
cypresses  had  become  a  mist  of  rare  hues,  behind 
which  those  trees  emblematic  of  mourning  almost 
lost  their  significance.  At  last,  however,  one  felt 
that  the  light  was  fading,  that  the  somber  sil 
houettes  of  the  cypresses  were  more  visible  than 
their  poetic  embellishment.  And  finally,  with  the 
darkness,  a  breeze  seemed  to  bring  a  long  sigh 
from  those  elegiac  branches,  together  with  a  per 
fume  of  the  roses  that  had  become  unapparent^ 
wet  with  dew  as  if  with  innumerable  tears. 

After  a  long  silence,  Brantome  lifted  his  burly, 
old  body  from  the  piano  bench,  came  to  stand  be 
fore  David,  then  abruptly  turned  away. 

139 


SACRIFICE 

"It  is  all  your  promises  fulfilled,"  he  said,  as 
he  went  out  of  the  room  without  looking  back. 
But  it  was  Lilla  whose  arm  he  touched  in  passing. 

David  Verne  sat  gazing  before  him,  his  sunken 
eyes  shining  in  his  face  of  a  sick,  young  Apollo  in 
bronze.  But  soon,  turning  his  eyes  toward  Lilla : 

"All  you!" 

She  gathered  his  hands  against  her  bosom  with 
a  movement  that  imparted  to  him  the  life  so  vio 
lently  pounding  in  her  heart — the  pride  and  the 
hope,  perhaps  even  a  little  of  the  defiance  and  be 
lief.  She  gave  him  a  look  that  pierced  the  caverns 
of  his  brain,  where  his  faith  in  death  resided 
blackly,  with  a  white-hot  faith  in  life. 

"Have  you  forgotten,"  she  breathed,  "that  a 
little  while  ago  you,  and  every  one  else,  would  have 
called  this  impossible?" 

*  *  Too  much ! "  he  whispered,  peering  at  her  with 
a  dreadful  longing  across  the  chasm  that  lay  be 
tween  her  will  and  his  terror  of  extinction. 

"No!    You  shall  see!" 

She  felt  that  this  must  be  the  object  of  her  life 
long  wishes  and  antipathies — that  her  sense  of  the 
preciousness  of  mortal  life  and  beauty,  and  her 
hunger  for  participation  in  the  development  of 
both,  were  instincts  intended  to  make  her  indomi 
table  now.  Suddenly  she  had  one  of  those  rare 
moments  when  the  will  is  so  strengthened  by  a 
feeling  of  worthy  purpose  that  it  becomes  tre 
mendous,  and  everything  opposed  to  it  seems  as 

140 


SACKIFICE 

good  as  vanquished.  It  was  with  an  accent  of  ac 
complished  victory  that  she  repeated: 

"You  shall  see!" 

And  now,  indeed,  the  drowning  man  clutched  at 
the  flower  that  epitomized  the  dear  world. 

"Lilla!  Never  let  go  of  my  hands!  Yes,  it's 
true ;  while  I  hold  them  I  hold  fast  to  life ;  but  if 
you  let  go  of  them,  in  that  moment  I'll  go  tum 
bling  down  into  the  pit.  Do  you  realize  that  by  this 
time  I  should  probably  be  already  gone,  if  you 
hadn't  appeared?  I  am  a  dead  man  who  lives, 
who  even  does  this  work,  because  of  the  hold  of 
these  slender  hands  of  yours. ' ' 

In  that  clutch  of  his,  all  at  once  so  strong  de 
spite  his  feebleness,  Lilla  found  no  sinister  por 
tent.  She  was  thinking: 

"  Death  conquered  me  once ;  but  now  I  shall  con 
quer  death. " 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

NEXT  day,  when  a  maid  announced  that  Hamoud- 
bin-Said  was  waiting  in  the  library,  Lilla  felt  that 
the  time  had  come  to  "stop  that  nonsense."  Her 
desire  to  learn  Arabic  now  seemed  to  her  an  ab 
surd  caprice;  and  once  more  she  had  reason  to 
wonder  at  her  swift  passage  from  one  enthusiasm 
to  another,  her  intense  preoccupation  with  things 
that  suddenly  became  insufferable.  She  entered 
the  library  dressed  and  hatted  for  the  street,  pull 
ing  on  her  gloves;  and  while  occupied  with  her 
glove  buttons  said  calmly,  in  her  enchanting  voice : 

"I'm  going  to  be  very  busy  for  a  while.  I  sup 
pose  I  ought  to  have  given  you  a  little  notice ;  so 
I'm  writing  you  a  check  for  two-weeks'  lessons." 

Hamoud  stood  before  her,  tall  and  spare,  in  a 
new,  black  alpaca  suit  as  incongruous-looking  as 
the  old  one.  He  made  no  response  at  once;  and 
there  was  no  change  in  his  perfectly  chiseled,  tan 
features ;  but  for  all  his  impassiveness  he  managed 
remarkably  to  convey  the  impression  that  an  im 
mense  calamity  had  befallen  him.  His  full  eyelids 
remained  lowered,  as  if  he  were  considering  his 
whole  unfortunate  destiny;  and  a  sort  of  loneli- 

142 


SACRIFICE 

ness,  produced  no  doubt  by  his  strangeness  in  this 
room,  hovered  round  his  shapely  head  that  was 
covered  with  straight,  black  locks. 

Lilla  felt  a  twinge  of  compunction,  as  she  re 
flected  : 

"Who  in  this  town  except  myself  would  ever 
take  Arabic  lessons!  Poor  young  caliph!  Now 
he  must  work  or  starve." 

She  added,  aloud: 

"In  fact,  you've  been  such  a  good  teacher  that 
I  ought — well,  haven't  I  made  great  progress!" 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  bitter  smile  appeared 
on  his  gemlike  lips.  He  replied  in  Arabic: 

"It  is  a  difficult  language,  madam.  Perhaps  you 
understand  what  I  am  saying  now  because  I  am 
speaking  very  simply  and  slowly.  But  you  your 
self  can  speak  only  the  most  ordinary  phrases ;  and 
I  doubt  if  any  one  but  I  could  understand  you. 
However,  why  should  you  trouble  to  learn  this  lan 
guage  of  mine  ?  It  always  seemed  folly  to  me.  It 
is  just  a  part  of  this  life,  which  has  little  meaning 
except  to  thoughtless  persons,  and  in  which,  to 
the  wise,  all  events  are  like  the  shadows  of  passing 
birds." 

Her  pride  was  affronted ;  and  yet  it  was  not  as 
if  an  inferior  had  rebuked  her.  He  picked  up  his 
hat,  a  frightful  confection  of  tan  and  yellow  straw, 
and  the  textbook  out  of  which  she  had  learned — 
in  heaven's  name,  why? — the  facts  that  "el"  and 
"al"  are  assimilated  before  dentals,  and  that 

143 


SACRIFICE 

"elli"  is  omitted  after  general  substantives. 
Hamoud-bin-Said  inclined  his  handsome  head, 
while  concluding : 

"You  will  soon  forget  all  you  have  learned  from 
me,  and  I  shall  have  received  your  money  for 
nothing."  His  impassiveness  was  deranged  by 
a  look  of  chagrin,  as  he  blurted  out  harshly:  "I 
regret  that  the  money  also  has  flown  away,  or  I 
should  insist " 

He  held  his  head  high,  as  if  trying  to  rise  above 
his  feeling  of  degradation. 

Lilla  stood  looking  at  him  thoughtfully  from 
under  the  edge  of  a  verdigris-colored  turban  that 
matched  the  high  collar  of  her  walking  suit.  She 
was  reluctant  to  let  him  drift  away  to  some  ob 
scure,  wretched  fate,  to  which  his  native  apathy 
would  surely  direct  him.  She  perceived  in  him 
again  a  certain  relationship  to  herself,  a  relation 
ship  due  not  only  to  his  past  good  fortune,  but  also 
to  something  in  his  character — perhaps  some  like 
ness  of  enthusiasm,  or  even  some  identical  kind  of 
ardor,  or  else  some  weakness  that  had  ruined  him 
but  had  not  yet  ruined  her.  So  it  was  with  a  blush 
that  she  suggested : 

"See  here,  an  invalid  friend  of  mine  is  dissat 
isfied  with  the  man  who  takes  care  of  him " 

When  she  had  made  herself  clear,  his  face  turned 
brick-red,  and  for  an  instant  his  eyes  were  terrible. 
One  would  have  said  that  some  ancestor  uncon- 
taminated  by  Zanzibar,  some  true  Arab  of  Oman, 

144 


SACRIFICE 

stood  there  in  his  place,  flaming  with  outraged 
dignity.  He  cast  back  at  her  one  more  burning 
look  before  he  stalked  from  the  house. 

The  following  week,  when  she  had  forgotten 
him,  she  found  him,  at  twilight,  in  the  black-and- 
white  hall. 

He  looked  exhausted,  as  if  he  had  tramped  in 
numerable  miles;  and  his  face  was  as  pale  as 
death.  He  bowed  humbly,  muttering: 

"Madam,  if  you  will  forgive,  I  am  now  ready  to 
be  the  servant  of  that  sick  man." 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

SOMETIMES  she  tried  to  stand  off  as  a  spectator 
of  her  emotionalism,  to  examine  these  new  feel 
ings.  Were  they  more  egotistical  than  compas 
sionate,  more  defiant  than  gentle?  Among  them, 
at  any  rate,  there  was  gratitude.  She  had  found 
an  object  in  life,  had  splendidly  emerged  from  her 
old  sensations  of  incompleteness  and  inferiority. 
No  longer  that  morbid  humility  struggling  in  vain 
to  transform  itself  into  a  violent  self-assertion. 
Not  since  she  had  become  the  virtual  creatrix  of 
beauty,  even  the  giver  of  life! 

And  David,  because  she  owed  so  much  to  him, 
became  every  day  more  precious.  All  this  new 
dignity  and  worth  that  now  enveloped  her,  these 
self-satisfactions  of  a  Euterpe  and  a  Beatrice,  de 
pended  on  his  survival,  would  increase,  even  if  he 
maintained  just  that  strange  equilibrium  between 
life  and  death,  but  would  die  the  instant  he  died. 
So  for  Lilla  he  took  on  such  importance  that  every 
thing  else  in  life  turned  insignificant :  old  ardors 
were  all  consumed  in  this  new  ardor  at  once  con 
quering  and  maternal,  vainglorious  and  passion 
ately  grateful. 

146 


SACRIFICE 

Even  that  wound  in  her  heart  from  which  a 
corporeal  love  had  been  torn  ont  by  the  roots,  was 
healed  at  last,  as  it  seemed,  by  these  new  forms  of 
pride  and  tenderness  that  could  culminate  in  no 
material  union. 

She  returned  less  and  less  often  to  the  little 
house  in  Greenwich  Village,  where  Parr,  escaped 
from  his  crutches,  sat  in  a  chintz-covered  chair,  a 
cane  between  his  knees,  his  white  head  lowered, 
still  dreaming  of  " those  good  days." 

"You're  better,  aren't  you?'  What  does  the 
doctor  say  now?  Is  there  anything  you  need 
here?" 

Her  eyes,  avoiding  his  look  of  humble  devotion, 
roamed  over  the  walls,  as  if  she  were  considering 
the  advisability  of  more  Delia  Kobbia  plaques. 
The  niece,  with  her  sleek  brown  bandeaux  and  fif 
teenth  century  profile,  passed  noiselessly  through 
the  hall ;  and  presently  a  smell  of  cooking  entered 
the  sitting  room.  s 

"As  late  as  that?" 

Lilla  drove  uptown,  heaped  her  arms  with  flow 
ers,  entered  the  rooms  to  which  Lawrence  Teck 
had  led  her  on  the  night  of  their  marriage. 

The  characteristic  odor  of  the  place — the  odor 
of  skins  and  sandalwood,  camphor  and  dried 
grasses — nearly  stifled  her.  In  the  gloom  she  saw 
the  savage  weapons  gleaming.  Then  the  shadow 
of  clustered  tomtoms  against  the  bedroom  door 
made  her  heart  stand  still.  As  if  to  exorcise  a 

147 


SACRIFICE 

ghost  that  she  no  longer  dared  to  meet,  still  clutch 
ing  the  mass  of  tributary  blossoms  to  her  breast, 
she  tore  the  window  curtains  apart.  The  sunset 
struck  in  like  a  sword  blade  relentlessly  cleaving 
through  the  veils  of  time.  Dust  lay  over  every 
thing.  On  the  center  table,  in  the  polished  gourd, 
a  bouquet  of  winter  roses  stood  rigid,  brown,  like 
the  lips  of  mummies,  dry  enough  to  crumble  at  a 
touch. 

Standing  there  in  her  modish  suit  so  cunningly 
devised  to  emphasize  her  charms,  with  the  flowers 
slipping  from  her  arms  to  the  dusty  rug,  she  wept 
at  the  vagueness  of  her  recollections,  the  fading 
away  of  grief,  to  which  she  had  once  dedicated 
herself  "for  life." 

"Why  do  I  keep  this  place  up?  It's  dreadful 
that  everything  should  be  just  the  same  here " 

She  meant,  "While  I  am  so  changed." 

She  went  downstairs  intending  to  tell  the  jani 
tor  to  give  the  rooms  a  cleaning ;  but  she  found  him 
— a  fat,  undersized  old  fellow  in  a  skullcap — talk 
ing  to  a  young  man  who  had  a  leather  portfolio 
stuck  under  his  arm.  As  her  eyes  were  red,  and 
her  voice  no  doubt  still  unsteady,  she  averted  her 
head,  and  passed  quickly  out  to  her  car. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THOUGH  a  genius — at  any  rate  according  to 
Brantome — it  was  now  David  Verne,  instead  of 
Lilla,  who  suffered  from  the  feeling  of  inferiority. 
To  hold  her,  he  had  only  his  music,  and  perhaps 
his  bodily  feebleness  that  excited  her  compassion. 
Yet  this  feebleness,  profound,  insurmountable, 
was  what  caused  his  torments  of  jealousy. 

The  question  was,  how  long  would  she  be  content 
with  this  wan  sort  of  love  ? 

And  what  did  he  know  of  her  life  during  all  the 
hours  when  she  was  invisible  to  him?  What  hom 
age,  what  persuasions,  must  she,  with  her  peculiar 
loveliness,  not  be  object  of,  out  there  in  the  world 
full  of  gaiety  and  vitality,  where  strength  was 
always  offering  itself  to  beauty?  It  would  be  only 
natural,  he  thought,  if  one  of  those  men  should 
win  her  heart  away,  and  she,  out  of  pity,  should 
pretend  that  nothing  had  happened. 

For  that  matter,  perhaps  even  now 

At  last  she  understood  why,  when  she  entered 
the  room,  he  sometimes  transfixed  her  with  that 
poignant,  questioning  look.  Then  his  appearance 
was  the  same  as  on  the  day  of  their  first  meeting, 

149 


SACRIFICE 

as  though,  at  that  dread,  he  had  lost  all  the  ground 
that  she  had  helped  him  to  gain. 

"Oh,  what  folly!"  she  cried,  aghast  more  at  the 
change  in  him  than  at  this  injustice.  "If  you 
knew  how  seldom  I  see  any  one  these  days,  except 
you ! ' ' 

He  remained  lost  in  the  fatal  contemplation  of 
the  idea,  his  body  sunk  even  deeper  in  the  wheel 
chair. 

"And  what's  more  there  never  has  been  any 
body  else,  except  one " 

A  gleam  issued  from  the  eyes  of  the  poor  wretch 
who,  while  hovering  so  nicely  between  life  and 
death,  was  still,  just  because  he  could  see  her, 
hear  her  voice,  and  touch  her  hand,  superior  to 
the  dead. 

"I  am  not  jealous  of  him,"  he  affirmed,  though 
not  quite  convincingly ;  since  a  man  may  be  nearly 
as  jealous  of  a  departed  rival  as  of  a  present  one. 
"But  every  fellow  that  you  know,  who  walks  to 
ward  you  in  his  wholeness  and  vigor,  is  my  su 
perior.  Ah,  my  music;  don't  speak  of  it!  What 
does  all  that  amount  to  against  those  natural  quali 
ties,  which  I  can  never  regain?" 

His  frail,  handsome,  bronzed,  young  face  ex 
pressed  a  puerile  helplessness.  And  it  was  with 
a  maternal  pity  that  she  reassured  him,  using 
words  such  as  mothers  find  for  children  fright 
ened  by  the  dark. 

150 


SACRIFICE 

" Forgive  me,  Lilla.  But  what  do  you  expect? 
You  are  my  life." 

She  reflected  that  beneath  his  weakness  there 
was  a  strength  perhaps  greater  than  the  strength 
of  the  strong ;  and  now,  at  last,  she  thought  of  the 
clutch  of  the  drowning. 

Then,  instead  of  meeting  her  always  at  Bran- 
tome  *s,  he  had  himself  wheeled  to  her  house.  Two 
or  three  times  a  week,  as  the  summer  advanced, 
he  dined  there,  in  the  cream-colored  room  where 
Balbians  and  Dellivers  of  Andrew  Jackson's  day 
— and  even  a  dandy  by  Benjamin  West  in  a  sky- 
blue  satin  coat — looked  down  from  above  the  ma 
hogany  sideboards  that  were  laden  with  Colonial 
glassware  and  old  Lowenstoft.  The  windows  were 
open  to  the  mews;  the  candle  flames  flickered  in 
a  tepid  breeze.  They  could  hear  the  faint  crash 
of  a  band  that  was  playing  a  Strauss  waltz  in 
Washington  Square. 

She  had  not  opened  the  Long  Island  house.  As 
for  David,  he  had  a  house  of  his  own  in  a  corner 
of  Westchester  County,  inherited  from  his  par 
ents,  who  had  been  well-to-do.  He  told  her  about 
his  family  and  his  childhood — his  feeling  of 
strangeness  amid  persons  who  had  thought  him 
very  queer,  and  had  tried  by  every  means  to  make 
him  conform  to  their  ideals  of  thought.  "I  was 
a  sort  of  black  sheep,"  he  declared,  "because  some 
necessity  compelled  me  to  be  myself.  I  could  never 

151 


SACRIFICE 

get  over  my  skepticism  about  a  thousand  things 

that  seemed  plain  to  those  good  folks " 

The  candles  flickered  before  his  hypersensitive 
face.    The  band  in  the  Square  continued  to  play 
Strauss 's  Rosen  <ms  dem  Siiden,  with  its  old  sug 
gestions  of  agile  grace,  united  movement,  young 
men  and  maidens  joyously  dancing  away  toward 
kisses  and  laughter.    The  servants  brought  in  the 
fresh  course.    Lilla  cut  up  David's  food,  then  held 
the  fork  to  his  lips ;  for  the  man  who  had  scrawled 
that  concerto  could  not  lift  his  hands  high  enough 
to  feed  himself.    He  faltered: 
"Your  dinner  will  get  cold." 
"All  the  better,  on  such  a  hot  night." 
"Yes,"  he  sighed,  "you  ought  not  to  be  here  in 
this  oven  of  a  city." 

"Oh,  I !"  she  retorted,  with  moisture  in  her  eyes. 
In  the  drawing-room  Hamoud-bin-Said  paced 
to  and  fro,  sometimes  standing  before  the  picture 
by  Bronzino,  and  seeming  to  stare  clear  through 
it.  He  was  serene,  as  water  is  serene  that  has  been 
lashed  by  tempests,  and  that  holds  in  the  depths 
of  its  placidity  secrets  that  none  can  discern.  He 
was  always  near  nowadays,  on  the  fringe  of  their 
lives,  just  beyond  the  radius  of  their  preoccupa 
tions,  the  silent  witness  of  this  strange  love  affair, 
in  the  humble  station  that  Allah,  for  some  inscrut 
able  reason,  had  decreed  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ONE  night  when  she  was  expecting  David  to  din 
ner,  she  turned  round,  from  arranging  some  flow 
ers  in  a  vase  in  the  drawing-room,  to  see  Cornelius 
Kysbroek  in  the  doorway.  He  had  come,  he  de 
clared,  to  "take  her  out  somewhere,  give  her  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  and  make  her  listen  to  reason." 

"But  I'm  dining  here,  Cornie." 

"Alone?" 

"No." 

Nevertheless,  he  sat  down  with  a  dogged  look. 

"What's  to  be  the  end  of  this?"  he  demanded. 
"I  suppose  you  know  what  a  lot  of  chatter  this 
nonsense  of  yours  has  stirred  up?  They're  even 
saying  that  you're  engaged  to  him.  It's  perfectly 
monstrous." 

It  was  his  old  tone  of  voice,  throaty,  quaintly 
didactic,  precise  from  spite  and  yet  muffled  by 
rage;  but  it  was  not  the  same  face.  It  was,  in 
stead,  the  face  of  a  desperate,  possibly  dangerous 
man,  who  had  brooded  over  this  monomania  in  the 
gorges  of  the  great  Chinese  river,  in  the  filthy 
yamens  of  barbarous  mountain  towns,  in  the  forts 
of  hill-robbers  who  practiced  extraordinary  cruel- 

153 


SACRIFICE 

ties.  He  had  fought  his  way  through  rapids  whose 
very  names  were  ominous — "The  King  of  Hell's 
Slide,"  the  "Last  Look  at  Home,"  the  "Place 
Where  the  Soul  Itself  Is  Lost."  He  had  sat  with 
the  free  people  of  Nosuland,  the  enemies  of  the 
Chinese,  eating  from  bowls  of  camphorwood  raw 
sheep's  heart  minced  with  pepper,  sometimes  ex 
pecting  permission  to  go  free,  sometimes  sure  of 
being  tortured  with  the  split  bamboo.  At  last  they 
had  sent  him  back  with  gifts.  Then,  rushing  home 
to  her,  he  had  been  led  by  her  greeting  to  believe 
that  his  miseries  were  ended. 

What  a  mockery  of  hope!  On  those  journeys 
of  his,  roused  from  his  acquiescence  in  ill-health 
and  failure,  moved  by  a  savage  determination,  he 
had  accomplished  the  impossible,  in  body  and  char 
acter  had  exceeded  his  limitations.  He  had  taken 
as  his  pattern  the  rival  whom  she  had  preferred. 
He  had  built  up  in  himself  the  counterfeits  of 
those  qualities  by  which  Lawrence  Teck  had  won 
her.  Yet  now  he  must  see  her  devoting  herself  to 
a  man  who  was  the  antithesis  of  all  that  she  had 
previously  preferred. 

It  was  unendurable !  But  how  was  he  to  escape 
it?  By  hating  her!  Yes,  surely  she  was  worthy 
of  his  hatred,  heartless,  cruel,  the  cause  of  all 
these  innumerable  torments  from  which  he  some 
times  got  a  moment  of  madness. 

"What  do  I  see  in  you?"  he  said  between  his 
teeth. 

154 


SACRIFICE 

She  had  on  a  copper-colored  gown  hung  over 
her  slender  shoulders  by  two  straps.  Maybe  be 
cause  its  hue  was  a  deeper  shade  of  the  same 
color  as  her  hair,  her  eyes,  and  even  her  pale- 
brown  skin,  the  costume  seemed  part  of  her.  He 
could  see  nothing  about  her  that  was  not  ex 
quisite — no  detail  from  which  to  build  up  a  reme 
dial  distaste.  So  he  ground  out  at  her: 

"Your  nature1?  What  rot! — as  if  that  ever  at 
tracted  me,  with  its  false  pretenses  of  heart,  its 
instabilities  and  downright  treacheries.  What  else 
do  you  offer?  This  that  I  see?  What  we  human 
fools  call  beauty?  What  is  beauty ?" 

She  sat  down  in  despair,  observing  that  even 
his  jaws,  under  his  heavy  mustache,  looked  more 
salient.  It  wras  almost  laughable,  she  thought; 
but  she  was  far  from  laughing.  Every  moment 
she  expected  to  hear  the  doorbell. 

He  continued  ferociously: 

"In  the  beginning  these  arms  and  legs  of  yours 
were  nothing  but  appliances  for  hanging  from 
trees  and  running  away  from  wild  beasts.  Your 
body  was  merely  a  convenient  case  for  a  machine 
that  kept  your  life  ticking  along.  How  does  one 
get  the  idea  that  all  this  is  good-looking?  Ages 
ago  men  decided  to  think  so  for  reasons  that  have 
nothing  to  do  with  esthetics ;  they  passed  the  hoax 
on,  and  in  time  these  physical  features  got  them 
selves  surrounded  with  a  perfect  fog  of  senti 
mental  and  romantic  balderdash.  Take  your  face. 

155 


SACRIFICE 

Yonr  nose  is  bridged  in  that  so-called  ravishing 
way  in  order  to  let  a  stream  of  air  into  your  Inngs. 
Your  eyebrows — how  many  sonnets  have  been 
written  on  eyebrows ! — are  there,  in  the  first  place, 
to  keep  the  perspiration  from  running  into  your 
eyes.  Your  lips  are  merely  a  binding  against  the 
friction  of  food.  How  grotesque  to  find  such  ex 
pedients  beautiful!  No  doubt  in  other  planets 
there  are  creatures  that  you'd  call  monsters;  and 
they'd  call  you  hideous.  In  fact,  there  can't  be 
any  such  thing  as  beauty." 

"No  doubt  you're  right,  Cornie  dear,'*  she  re 
sponded,  looking  down  at  her  beautiful  hands. 

"And  what's  it  all  for?"  he  ejaculated,  in  a 
stupefied  kind  of  horror.  "All  this  sordid  consoli 
dation  of  flesh  and  blood,  this  disgusting  hallucina 
tion  of  attractiveness?  All  for " 

"I  know,"  she  assented.  "More  Lillas,  ad  in- 
finitum.  Isn't  it  tiresome?" 

He  jumped  up,  with  a  groan : 

"I  could  kill  you!" 

"Too  late.  You  ought  to  have  done  it  when  we 
were  children  together." 

"Yes,  too  late,  too  late." 

He  wandered  round  the  room,  slapping  one  fist 
into  the  other,  glaring  at  the  walls,  from  which 
old-time  ladies  simpered  vapidly  at  him.  His 
brain  seemed  to  be  whirling  round  in  his  skull; 
his  vision  became  blurred ;  and  he  had  a  dreadful 
apprehension  of  losing  contact  with  normality. 

156 


SACRIFICE 

But  normality,  too — what  was  it?  Normality  was 
being  natural!  He  came  toward  her;  she  rose 
and  recoiled ;  but  he  caught  hold  of  her  arms  above 
the  elbows,  and  held  her  fast  when  she  swayed 
back  from  him  with  a  long  shimmer  of  her  cop 
per-colored  gown. 

"You're  hurting  me,  Cornie.  And  there's  the 
bell,"  she  muttered,  her  heart  going  dead. 

He  released  her  with  the  gesture  of  a  man  who 
hurls  an  enemy  over  a  precipice.  He  gasped: 

"One  of  these  days!" 

And  with  a  livid  smile  he  left  the  room  as  David 
Verne  appeared  in  the  doorway,  in  his  wheel  chair, 
propelled  by  Hamoud. 

But  David,  too,  was  nearly  unrecognizable. 

"What  is  it?"  she  ejaculated,  and  turned  to 
catch  her  reflection  in  a  mirror.  She  saw  herself 
in  a  curious  aspect  also,  white  and  a  little  wild. 
One  of  her  shoulder  straps  had  slipped  down 
across  her  arm. 

"What  a  dress!"  she  said. 

David  carefully  pronounced  the  words : 

' '  That  was  Eysbroek,  wasn  't  it  f " 

"Yes;  I've  known  him  since  we  were  kiddies." 

"I  remember  your  saying  so." 

"He  brought  me  bad  news,"  she  added,  to  im 
ply,  "That 'sit." 

"Ah,  I'm  sorry." 

There  was  no  life  in  his  voice. 

In  the  dining  room  the  servants  moved  noise- 
157 


SACRIFICE 

lessly,  as  though  fearful  of  disturbing  the  long 
silences.  A  sickly  breeze  stirred  the  curtains  of 
apricot  velvet.  The  brass  band  in  Washington 
Square  was  playing  selections  from  Verdi;  the 
long-drawn  wails  of  the  horns  crept  in  through 
the  windows  like  snatches  of  a  dirge.  She  was 
reduced  to  speaking  of  the  sultry  air.  A  thunder 
storm  was  brewing? 

"The  air  will  be  clearer, "  he  assented. 

He  ate  nothing.  "When  Hamoud  had  wheeled 
him  back  to  the  drawing-room,  he  asked : 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  go?  A  splitting  headache. 
This  weather." 

"You  shouldn't  have  stayed  in  town,  you  see," 
she  returned  automatically. 

"Maybe  I'll  go  up  to  Westchester  for  a  week 
or  so."  His  dull  eyes  rested  upon  the  picture 
that  she  made  as  she  stood  uneasily  before  him, 
with  an  appearance  of  guilt,  her  figure  like  a  shaft 
of  flame  springing  upward  from  the  hearth,  her 
brown  head  aureoled  by  the  tempestuous  canvas  of 
Bronzino.  "Besides,"  he  concluded,  "keeping 
you  here  all  this  while  a  prisoner " 

"How  can  you  be  so  unkind?" 

"At  least  I'm  not  ungrateful." 

He  made  a  sign  to  Hamoud,  who  stole  forward 
to  take  his  post  behind  the  wheel  chair;  and  the 
two  faces  regarded  her  with  the  same  brave,  se 
cret  look,  the  same  queer  impassiveness  that  was 
like  a  deafening  cry.  Her  nerves  began  to  fail 

158 


SACRIFICE 

her.  With  an  unaccountable  feeling  of  perfidy  she 
straightened  his  cravat,  while  murmuring : 

"I'll  see  you  first,  of  course,  dear?" 

"Of  course." 

But  he  neither  saw  her  nor  telephoned  before 
his  departure;  nor  did  he  write  to  her  from  the 
house  in  Westchester  County.  On  the  third  day 
she  went  to  Brantome,  who  said: 

"I  was  coming  to  see  you." 

Fixing  her  with  his  tragical  old  eyes,  he  in 
formed  her  that  he  had  received  a  long-distance 
call  from  David  Verne's  physician,  who  had  tele 
phoned  from  the  house  in  Westchester  County. 
In  three  days  David  seemed  to  have  lost  all  that 
he  had  gained  in  these  months.  For  some  reason 
he  was  letting  go  of  life. 

"Why  is  that?  Is  it  because  he  is  letting  go  of 
you?" 

The  Frenchman's  leonine  countenance  took  on 
a  hostile  expression.  He  persisted: 

"Eh?    Is  it  you  who  have  done  this?" 

And  Lilla  understood  that  to  this  old  devotee 
of  the  arts  she  had  ceased  to  be  anything  except  a 
means  to  an  end. 

He  seemed  contemptible  to  her  with  his  red- 
rimmed,  fiery  eyes,  his  Viking  mustaches  that  had 
turned  truculent,  his  whole  aspect  of  animosity 
at  this  last  collapse  of  hope.  And  of  a  sudden  she 
divined  the  true  basis  of  those  hopes  of  his — the 
longing  for  at  least  some  vicarious  creation,  the 

159 


SACRIFICE 

desire  to  escape,  in  part,  his  own  sense  of  defeat 
by  aiding,  and,  therefore,  sharing,  the  triumphs 
of  another.  He  put  himself  in  her  path :  he  would 
not  let  her  go.  He  was  preparing  to  hurl  at  her, 
who  knew  what  reproaches. 

"Oh,  get  out  of  my  way!"  she  cried  at  last,  in 
a  breaking  voice.  She  pushed  him  aside  so  sharply 
that  he  tottered  back  on  his  heels.  She  rushed  out 
of  the  room,  downstairs,  into  her  car. 

The  limousine  sped  northward  into  the  country. 

She  watched  the  placid  fields,  the  wooded  hill 
tops,  the  lanes  that  wound  away  between  walls 
of  sumac.  She  thought  of  another  unexpected  ride 
toward  another  crisis  of  life.  Her  heart  was  beat 
ing  wildly ;  her  breathing  was  labored ;  her  hands 
twitched  open  and  shut.  She  took  the  mirror  from 
its  rack,  and  saw  her  pupils  extraordinarily  di 
lated,  so  that  her  eyes  appeared  black. 

The  car  left  the  highway,  to  enter  a  park  of 
well-grown  trees.  She  caught  sight  of  the  low, 
simple  mass  of  the  house ;  its  walls  of  gray  plas 
ter  rising  between  two  clumps  of  evergreens,  be 
yond  a  garden  laid  out  in  grassy  stages,  where  flag 
stone  paths  wound  away  between  beds  of  helio 
trope.  On  the  terrace,  under  an  awning  of  striped 
canvas,  stood  a  man  in  a  dark-blue  robe  that 
opened  down  the  front  to  reveal  a  white  under  robe 
confined  with  a  scarlet  sash.  He  had  a  close-fitting 
skullcap  on  his  head,  of  white,  embroidered  linen. 
He  was  Hamoud-bin-Said. 

160 


SACEIFICE 

She  passed  him  without  a  second  glance,  and 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  the  physician,  who 
was  just  starting  back  to  town. 

Dr.  Fallows  began  to  talk  to  her  judicially  and 
suavely,  with  a  tone  of  regret,  but  possibly  with 
an  undertone  of  contentment :  for  this  case,  after 
having  immensely  bewildered  him  for  a  time,  was 
now,  at  last,  imitating  all  the  proper  symptoms 
again.  The  patient 's  recent  improvement  had  been 
due,  no  doubt,  to  one  of  those  rallies  that  may 
interrupt  the  progress  of  many  diseases — though 
in  a  case  of  this  sort,  whether  due  to  a  functional 
or  a  pathological  cause,  Dr.  Fallows  had  never 
seen  nor  heard  of  an  arrest — much  less  a  diminu 
tion — of  the  general  weakness. 

But  now  the  relapse  was  complete. 

She  was  aware  of  a  lot  of  fluted  wainscotting 
around  her,  and,  beyond  Dr.  Fallows'  head,  a 
Tudor  staircase  in  silhouette  against  a  large  bay 
window  of  many  leaded  panes.  Some  of  these 
panes,  of  stained  glass  in  heraldic  patterns, 
gleamed  against  a  passing  cloud  like  rubies,  emer 
alds,  and  sapphires  that  had  lost  their  fire.  Dr. 
Fallows  still  blocked  her  way — almost  another 
Brantome! — engrossed  in  his  pessimistic  perora 
tion,  his  visage  of  an  urbane,  successful  man  full 
of  complicated  satisfactions  and  regrets.  Behind 
him  the  staircase  was  suddenly  bathed  in  sun 
shine  ;  all  the  panes  of  stained  glass  became  spark 
ling  and  rich;  and  a  sheaf  of  prismatic  rays 

161 


SACRIFICE 

stretched  down,  through  the  gloom  of  the  hall, 
toward  Lilla's  upturned  face. 

She  sped  up  the  staircase. 

All  that  she  saw  was  the  four-post  bedstead 
canopied  with  cretonne,  the  face  on  the  pillow.  At 
her  approach,  a  thrill  passed  through  the  air  per 
vaded  by  the  stagnation  of  his  spirit.  He  opened 
his  eyes. 

' '  You !    I  thought  I  had  unchained  you. ' ' 

She  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  asked: 

"What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this?" 

He  managed  to  respond: 

"You  deserve  more,  perhaps — a  worldful  of 
blessings.  But  this  release  is  all  that  I  have  to 
give  you." 

"Do  you  think  I  care:  for  that  man?  I  even 
hate  him  now,  if  it's  he  who  has  brought  you  to 
this." 

He  looked  like  a  soul  that  sees  an  angel  hover 
ing  on  the  threshold  of  hell,  promising  salvation. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  believe  you!" 

And  all  the  propulsions  that  had  brought  this 
moment  to  pass  now  forced  from  her  lips : 

"I  am  here  to  prove  it  in  a  way  that  you  can 
never  doubt." 

That  day,  at  twilight,  she  standing  beside  his 
bed,  they  were  married. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

BEYOND  seas,  deserts,  and  snow-capped  moun 
tain  peaks,  in  the  equatorial  forests  where  the 
Mambava  spearmen  dwelt  unconquered,  the  black 
king,  Muene-Motapa,  sat  in  the  royal  house  lis 
tening  to  a  story  teller. 

The  king  sat  on  an  ebony  stool,  in  a  haze  of 
wood  smoke,  muffled  in  a  cape  of  monkey  skin  em 
broidered  with  steel  beads ;  for  while  it  was  sum 
mer  in  America  it  was  winter  in  his  land.  Behind 
him,  in  a  wide  semicircle  against  the  wattled  walls, 
sat  his  black  councilors,  war  captains,  and  wives, 
their  eyeballs  and  teeth  agleam  in  the  light  cast 
up  by  the  embers.  On  the  other  side  of  the  fire, 
the  story  teller  discoursed  from  between  two  war 
riors  who  leaned  their  heads  pensively  against 
the  upright  shafts  of  their  stabbing  spears. 

At  the  story  teller's  gestures — since  gestures 
were  needed  to  explain  these  wonders — chains 
clanked  on  his  wrists.  TKe  chains  had  been  fas 
tened  upon  his  arms  and  legs  long  ago,  when  he 
had  begun  to  struggle  back  to  health,  surviving 
wounds  that  even  his  hardy  cap'tors  had  expected 
to  prove  fatal.  When  he  fell  silent,  the  councilors, 

163 


SACRIFICE 

captains,  and  women  patted  their  months  to  ex 
press  their  astonishment,  and  the  king  declared: 

"A  good  tale,  Bangana.  Do  you  know  still  an 
other?" 

So  Lawrence  Teck  resumed  his  entertainment. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  house  in  Westchester  County  was  a  pleas 
ant  surprise  to  Lilla.  When  she  had  gotten  rid  of 
some  furniture  and  bric-a-brac  whose  style  or  color 
irritated  her,  she  found  herself  in  a  sympathetic 
atmosphere,  surrounded,  as  always,  by  a  har 
monious  and  sophisticated  richness. 

In  the  wainscotted  hall,  which  the  stained  glass 
of  the  bay-window  on  the  staircase  landing  dap 
pled  every  day  with  a  prismatic  light,  a  marble 
Eenaissance  mantelpiece  supported  a  mounted 
knight  of  the  fifteenth  century  in  stone,  a  cham 
pion  who  brandished  his  sword,  and  raised  his 
sightless  eyes,  in  an  invariable  gesture  of  defiance. 
Across  the  hall  from  him,  a  wide  doorway  opened 
on  the  living  room,  illuminated  from  tall  windows 
set  with  quaint  faces  in  color,  and  having  at  its 
far  end  a  fine  old  Flemish  tapestry  of  faded  greens 
and  browns,  behind  a  long  table  on  which  stood  a 
bust  of  a  Florentine  noblewoman  in  polychrome. 
High  sprays  of  flowers  sprang  up,  here  and  there, 
above  sofas  and  chairs  upholstered  in  antiquated 
damask,  and  seemed  to  bring  into  this  spacious 

165 


SACRIFICE 

room  walled  with  fluted  wood  the  gayety  of  the 
garden,  which  appeared,  behind  the  leaded  win- 
dowpanes,  a  riot  of  golden  marguerites,  Chilean 
lilies,  Chinese  larkspur,  phlox,  asters,  and  poppy 
mallows. 

Next,  beyond  folding  doors,  stood  David 's 
study,  a  pianoforte  between  the  mullioned  win 
dows,  a  large  carved  center  table  covered  with 
portfolios  and  books,  the  paneled  walls  hung  with 
framed  sheets  of  music  written  and  autographed 
by  famous  composers. 

Upstairs,  however,  in  her  own  apartment,  Lilla 
had  produced  an  eighteenth  century  air.  The 
walls  of  her  sitting  room  and  bedroom  were  re 
molded  in  chaste  panels  of  French  gray;  the  new 
rugs  and  the  canopied  window  curtains  were  the 
palest  orange.  Her  desk,  the  most  vivid  object  in 
her  sitting  room,  pleased  her  especially — a  high 
Venetian  desk  of  green  and  gold  lacquer  with 
pigeon  holes  and  writing  shelf  of  gold  and  red. 
She  thought  of  the  letters  that  must  have  been 
written  there  by  women  with  dark  eyes  and  pow 
dered  coiffures. 

Then  she  sighed.  A  look  of  wonder  and  depres 
sion  was  reflected  by  a  mirror  framed  in  gilt ;  and 
she  turned  to  stare  at  a  vase  in  which  stood  a  bou 
quet  of  Louis  XVI  flowers,  a  soft  blending  of 
mauve,  faint  yellow,  rose,  and  pale  blue,  all  fash 
ioned  out  of  tin. 

166 


SACRIFICE 

*  *  Tin  flowers !  Great  heavens,  what  was  I  think 
ing  off" 

She  had  only  now  realized  the  mockery  of  them. 
She  rang  for  a  maid,  and  said : 

"Throw  this  thing  out." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

IN  September  David  began  to  write  his  tone 
poem,  Marco  Polo. 

It  was  not  Marco  Polo  alone,  but  every  man  of 
extraordinary  aspirations,  who  took  that  long 
journey,  through  semimythical  deserts,  into  the 
realm  of  the  Great  Khan,  and  there  for  many 
years  lived  a  life  unrelated  to  the  lives  of  his  boy 
hood  companions. 

In  far-off  Cambulac  the  Venetian  adventurer 
steeped  himself  in  sights,  odors,  and  sounds  that 
were  the  antithesis  of  those  which  he  had  known, 
till  at  last  he  took  on  the  strangeness  of  his  sur 
roundings.  Yet  in  the  course  of  time,  though  cov 
ered  with  wealth  and  honors,  and  habituated  to 
bizarre  delights,  he  began,  with  the  perversity  of 
human  nature,  to  long  for  the  land  of  his  birth. 
With  a  sense  of  necessity  and  foreboding  he  tore 
himself  loose  from  the  paradise  of  Cambulac, 
traversed  the  deserts  again,  regained  his  own 
house.  None  knew  him,  for  he  was  old,  savory 
with  antipodal  spices,  outlandishly  garbed;  and 
even  his  countenance  had  become  like  those  Orien 
tal  faces  amid  which  he  had  found  unheard-of 

168 


SACEIFICE 

griefs  and  joys.  In  Venice,  his  birthplace,  instead 
of  a  greeting  that  might  ease  his  nostalgia,  he  en 
countered  disbelief  in  his  identity,  and  ridicule 
of  his  tales.  He  could  not  make  them  credulous 
of  that  delicious  Cambulac  where  he  had  dwelt 
like  a  god :  his  tidings  of  unearthly  felicities — free 
to  all  who  would  make  that  journey — fell  upon 
brutish  ears.  The  very  children  came  to  laugh  him 
to  scorn.  So  finally,  stunned  by  this  ingratitude, 
cut  to  the  heart  by  the  gibes  of  these  Venetian 
wretches  to  whom  he  had  brought  such  fine  news, 
he  sank  into  a  stupor,  and  wondered,  as  he  sat 
alone  in  his  shame,  whether  indeed  he  had  been 
a  great  and  dazzled  man  in  Cambulac — which,  per 
haps,  after  all,  had  no  existence  in  reality! 

The  idea  mapped  out,  there  began  for  David 
Verne  the  period  of  complex  mental  tension,  of 
intense  concentration,  during  which  an  interrup 
tion  might  scatter  forever  a  sequence  of  valuable 
thought.  Lilla,  knowing  how  great  this  mental 
and  emotional  strain  must  be,  wondered  that  he 
was  strong  enough  to  bear  it. 

But  the  desire  to  be  to  Lilla,  despite  his  infirm 
ity,  something  that  no  other  man  could  be,  made 
him  prodigious.  As  the  tone  poem  expanded  from 
this  inspiration,  he  gained  still  greater  impetus 
from  the  mere  tonic  of  success.  Toward  the  end 
of  October,  his  asthenia  had  diminished  enough 
to  allow  him  to  play  the  piano  weakly  in  three 
octaves. 

169 


SACRIFICE 

Dr.  Fallows,  on  one  of  his  visits  a  witness  of 
this  achievement,  went  out  thunderstruck  to  his 
car,  muttering  to  himself: 

"It  is  impossible!" 

He  looked  sternly  across  the  sunny  garden, 
where  the  last  of  the  summer  flowers — giant  dais 
ies  above  beds  of  tufted  pansies — were  triumph 
antly  flaunting  themselves.  He  had  never  heard, 
and  he  doubted  if  any  one  else  had  ever  heard,  of 
a  similar  case — the  checking  and  diminishing  of 
such  a  prostration.  But,  knitting  his  brows,  he 
pondered  on  the  still  chaotic  state  of  the  whole 
data  concerning  the  "endocrine  chain,"  and  on 
the  fallibility  of  previous  unequivocal  pronounce 
ments  in  the  science  of  medicine.  He  had  a  slight 
feeling  of  deflation,  followed  by  a  glow  of  curi 
osity;  and  he  returned  into  the  house  to  change 
his  orders  about  the  medicine. 

He  had  been  prescribing  a  solution  of  arsenic, 
the  dose  increasing  little  by  little  toward  the  point 
of  tolerance.  Now,  for  the  purpose  of  experiment, 
he  ordered  that  the  dose  was  to  remain  the  same. 
And  in  order  to  impress  his  instructions  upon  the 
mind  of  Hamoud-bin-Said,  he  said  to  the  Arab 
severely : 

"Remember,  not  one  drop  more!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

Lffla!" 

She  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  study  lik& 
a  muse  that  David  had  summoned  by  an  infallible 
conjuration. 

His  day 's  work  was  over.  He  showed  her  what 
he  had  done.  She  leaned  down  beside  the  wheel 
chair  to  scan  the  pages;  her  fluffy,  brown  hair 
filled  with  the  afternoon  sunshine.  And  David, 
in  the  exhaustion  following  his  labor,  dreamily 
immersed  his  senses  in  the  sight  of  her  pale-brown 
cheek  so  close  to  his,  in  the  persistent  strangeness 
of  her  perfume,  in  the  singular  cadences  of  her 
voice  that  were  always  inspiring  new  harmonies, 
and  in  the  caress  of  her  cool,  fragile  hands  that 
had  drawn  him  back  from  death. 

"Is  it  good?" 

What  he  meant  was,  "Is  it  good  enough  to  keep 
you  from  regrets'?" 

She  understood,  pitied  him  the  more,  redoubled 
her  tenderness.  And  this  wan  idyll  of  theirs,  as 
nearly  incorporeal  as  though  she  were  indeed  an 
ethereal  visitor,  took  on  a  new  pathos  which  was 
accentuated  by  the  withering  of  the  flowers  in  the 
garden,  the  first  hints  of  the  rigor  of  winter. 

171 


SACRIFICE 

He  marveled  at  her  self-immolation  in  this 
lonely  house.  He  wondered  how  long  such  a  state 
of  things  could  last.  Then,  summoning  back  his 
new  courage,  he  continued  his  combat  against  the 
unknown  rivals,  who,  perhaps,  had  not  yet  re 
vealed  themselves  to  her,  or  else  had  thus  far  sent 
to  her  only  ambiguous  and  subtle  heralds  of  their 
Doming — a  breeze  flavored  with  the  past  and  prom 
ising  an  imitation  of  old  transports,  a  cry  of  de 
parting  birds  like  a  reassurance  of  the  inevitable 
return,  not  only  of  the  spring,  but  also  of  natural 
love. 

"What  are  you  reading  now?"  he  would  ask  her 
apprehensively;  for  so  many  books  were  replete 
with  accounts  of  a  different  sort  of  union. 

Or,  when  she  had  gone  to  walk  through  the 
grounds  at  sunset,  he,  chained  to  his  wheel  chair, 
watched  her  departing  figure  with  a  sensation  of 
•dread,  asking  himself  what  thoughts  would  come 
to  her  out  there,  under  the  immense  compulsion 
of  the  scarlet  clouds. 

His  fears,  for  lack  of  any  other  definite  object, 
often  veered  toward  her  memories. 

She  rejoined  him  at  dusk,  languid  from  that 
brief  promenade,  like  those  Eastern  women  whom 
Lawrence  Teck  had  once  described  to  her,  or  like 
one  who  is  enervated  by  a  fever  stealthily  creeping 
round  one  at  the  moment  of  tropical  twilight.  He 
saw  her  eyes  misty  with  shadows  which  disap 
peared  as  she  came  forward  into  the  lamplight. 

172 


SACRIFICE 

"Yes,  she  had  been  thinking  of  him." 

He  suspected  that  she  thought  of  "him"  also 
in  the  night. 

"Don't  go  yet,"  he  would  plead,  when  she  came 
to  his  bed,  into  which  Hamoud-bin-Said  had 
tucked  him  like  a  child.  So  she  sat  down ;  and  the 
ray  of  the  night  lamp  fell  across  her  sensitive 
lips  that  had  felt  the  kisses  of  "the  other."  Dav 
id's  thin,  romantic,  bronzed  face,  with  its  queer 
comminglement  of  adolescence  and  genius,  was 
fortunately  in  the  shadows  cast  by  the  curtains  of 
the  bed  canopy. 

"Ah,  how  dull  it  must  be  for  you!  If  we  had 
some  visitors?  Brantome " 

"No,"  she  said. 

"And  yet  it  was  through  him " 

"What!  haven't  you  seen  through  him  yet?" 
she  returned  in  a  jealous  tone.  And  presently, 
with  an  accent  of  fear,  as  if  her  intuition  had  dis 
cerned  some  serious,  unrevealed  event  of  which 
Brantome  was  going  to  be  the  cause,  "I  wish  we 
could  have  met  some  other  place." 

"You  dislike  him  now?" 

She  responded: 

"It  was  he,  you  know,  who  told  me  of  that  other 
woman,  the  one  before  me,  who  had  you  when  you 
were  well." 

She  rose,  laid  a  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  and 
went  away  to  her  rooms  across  the  corridor,  leav 
ing  with  him  her  perfume. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

IN  New  York  there  were  two  opinions  con 
cerning  the  change  in  Cornelius  Rysbroek. 

From  his  travels,  it  seemed,  he  had  acquired  a 
certain  temperamental  as  well  as  physical  hard 
ness.  He  wore  habitually  a  calm,  ironical  look, 
as  though,  having  found  life  out,  he  considered  it 
a  phenomenon  worthy  only  of  scorn.  He  was  seen 
everywhere,  fastidiously  attired,  self-possessed, 
taciturn,  listening  to  the  chatter  of  his  friends  with 
sardonic  attention,  now  and  then  throwing  in  a 
blighting  comment.  It  was  curious  that  these  in 
frequent  remarks  of  his,  even  though  they  had  not 
remotely  referred  to  her,  always  ended  by  bring 
ing  the  conversation  round  to  Lilla.  Thereupon 
he  fell  silent,  smoked  one  cigarette  after  another, 
and  wore  a  look  of  indifference  and  boredom.  At 
last  he  would  rise,  apparently  fatigued  by  all  that 
trivial  gossip,  and  wander  away. 

In  solitude  he  became  another  man.  He  would 
pace  the  floor  for  hours,  sometimes  all  night ;  and 
then  one  might  have  heard  some  very  peculiar  rig 
maroles  declaimed  aloud,  or  even  shouted  out — 
phrases  so  jumbled  that  they  were  hardly  rational, 

174 


SACRIFICE 

cries  interrupted  by  groans  or  smothered  by  the 
grinding  of  his  teeth.  Now  and  then  his  valet,  on 
pushing  back  the  window  curtains  in  the  morning, 
discovered  a  mirror  smashed,  or  a  book  torn  to 
tatters.  There  was  something  shocking  in  the  calm 
set  of  Cornelius  Rysbroek's  jaws,  the  languid  con 
tempt  of  his  eyes,  as  he  remarked  to  the  valet, 
that  "there  had  been  a  little  accident  last  night. " 

Once  he  burned  his  right  hand  severely.  He 
had  hurled  a  picture  of  Lilla  into  the  fire,  then, 
to  rescue  it,  had  plunged  his  arm  to  the  elbow  into 
the  flames. 

He  often  drove  his  car  into  Westchester  County, 
round  and  round  a  wide  network  of  roads  in  the 
center  of  which  lay  the  house  of  David  Verne. 
Suddenly  he  entered  the  highway  that  passed  the 
tall  gateposts  of  the  detestable  place.  He  drove 
faster  and  faster.  The  gateposts  were  near  at 
hand.  He  bent  over  the  wheel,  and,  without  rais 
ing  his  eyes,  sent  the  car  roaring  by,  as  if  escaping 
through  a  forest  in  conflagration.  His  visage  was 
covered  with  sweat;  his  pupils  were  full  of  red 
lights.  He  no  longer  saw  the  road,  or  was  con 
scious  of  driving.  Miles  beyond,  he  became  aware 
that  he  was  calling  out  maledictions:  and 
strangers,  passing  at  a  decent  speed,  had  a  vision 
of  a  dapper,  ghastly  wretch  who  appeared  to  be 
fleeing  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  from  the  clutch 
of  insanity. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

FANNY  BRASSFIELD,  whose  country  house  was  not 
far  away,  sometimes  dropped  in  to  see  Lilla. 

" Hello,  David,"  she  said,  sitting  down  beside 
the  tea  table,  and  crossing  her  knees.  " How's 
old  Marco  Polo  to-day?" 

Her  bony  cheeks  were  rosy  from  the  cold  wind ; 
her  green  eyes  glittered  with  health ;  and  her  whole 
countenance,  under  a  tilted,  putty-colored  toque, 
expressed  her  full  satisfaction  with  what  she  had 
found  in  life.  She  had  no  nerves,  no  remorse  nor 
thwarted  ambitions.  Because  of  her  wealth,  un- 
scrupulousness,  and  small  imagination,  her  one 
constant  craving — for  novel  experiences — was  eas 
ily  satisfied.  A  long  cigarette  holder  between  her 
thin  lips,  one  putty-colored  lisle  stocking  showing 
to  the  knee,  she  exhaled,  together  with  an  odor  of 
Florentine  orris-root,  a  ruthless  vigor  and  appe 
tency  for  pleasure.  Lilla  thought  with  envy  of 
all  this  woman  had  never  imagined  nor  felt,  all  that 
she  had  been  able  to  enjoy  without  self-question 
ing. 

How  simple  life  was  for  some  people ! 

1 1 1  'm  giving  a  little  party.    No  doubt  it 'a  useless 

to  ask  you " 

176 


SACRIFICE 

Fanny  Brassfield  interrupted  herself  to  stare  at 
Hamoud-bin-Said,  who  had  entered  the  room  with 
out  a  sound. 

He  had  on  a  long,  dark-blue  joho,  or  robe,  em 
bellished  down  its  open  front  with  a  tracery  of 
gold.  Underneath  he  wore  the  kanzu,  the  under 
robe  of  fine  white  cotton,  embroidered  round  the 
neck  with  a  bit  of  red  needlework,  and  reaching 
to  his  boots  of  soft,  black  leather.  Round  his  waist 
was  a  blue-and-gold  sash,  from  which  protruded 
the  silver  hilt  of  his  J-shaped  Zanzibar  dagger. 
His  head  was  covered,  as  always  in  the  house, 
with  a  white  embroidered  skullcap.  In  one  small 
hand  he  held  a  Venetian  goblet,  in  the  other  a  bot 
tle  of  medicine. 

It  was  the  hour  for  Dr.  Fallows'  prescription. 

" Really,"  Fanny  Brassfield  exclaimed,  in  her 
high-pitched,  insolent  voice,  "I  must  get  myself 
one  of  these — what  is  he  again?  Zanzibar! ? " 

Hamoud,  towering  there  in  the  attire  of  an 
Oman  gentleman — which  she  took  for  a  specially 
effective  livery — contemplated  the  great  Mrs. 
Brassfield.  His  full  eyelids  were  dreamily  low 
ered  over  his  lustrous  eyes.  His  long,  straight 
nose  seemed  narrower  than  usual,  perhaps  from 
disdain.  But  his  clear-cut  carnelian  mouth,  vivid 
between  his  faint  mustache  and  his  delicate  beard, 
did  not  change  expression,  although  he  was  call 
ing  the  great  Mrs.  Brassfield  a  female  beneath  the 
contempt  of  a  Muscat  slaver,  the  progeny  of  cam- 

177 


SACRIFICE 

and  alley  dogs,  and  other  names  besides.  As 
if  regretfully  he  turned  away  to  David  Verne, 
measured  out  the  solution  of  arsenic,  and  pre 
sented  the  goblet,  a  tapering  treasure  covered  with 
gilt  and  crimson  protuberances,  an  antique  that 
had  stood  before  men  in  the  wave-lapped  palaces 
of  Venice,  brimming  with  Greek  wine,  or  maybe 
with  Renaissance  poison. 

David  Verne  himself  raised  the  goblet. 

"Dr.  Fallows  has  really  done  wonders,  hasn't 
lie?" 

"Wonders,"  Lilla  echoed  with  a  smile. 

In  the  hall,  as  she  was  leaving,  Fanny  Brass- 
field  said  to  Lilla : 

"By  the  way,  Anna  Zanidov  is  in  town.  She 
was  asking  after  you." 

"Without  moving,  Lilla  murmured  slowly : 

"Ah,  she  wants  to  tell  my  fortune  again,  per 
haps?" 

"She  stopped  doing  that.  It  got  too  uncanny. 
You  know  yourself  that  everything  she  ever  pre 
dicted  came  to  pass.  Including  three  deaths ;  that 
is,  two  besides " 

"One  must  believe  that  she  sees  it,"  Lilla  as 
sented,  and,  frozen  by  her  thoughts,  shuddered 
violently.  "Yes,  too  uncanny!  She  did  well  to 
give  it  up. ' ' 

"Especially  as  people  were  getting  to  be  afraid 
of  her,"  said  Fanny  Brassfield,  while  passing 
through  the  front  doorway. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

WHILE  David  worked  behind  the  closed  doors  of 
the  study,  Lilla,  sitting  down  in  a  damask-covered 
chair,  tried  to  concentrate  her  mind  on  the  new 
books  from  New  York. 

She  skimmed  the  novels  to  the  point  where  the 
lovers  had  their  first  embrace,  then  turned  to 
poems  by  women,  which  were  pervaded  with  a  mel 
ancholy  derived  perhaps  from  disillusionment. 
As  a  corrective  she  read  the  books  on  world  poli 
tics,  economics,  esthetic  philosophy.  In  these  last 
she  found,  eloquently  expressed,  the  most  char 
acteristic  argument  of  the  times — a  persuasion  to 
that  self-abandonment  which  follows  materialism 
and  moral  skepticism,  an  announcement  that  hap 
piness  lay  in  a  religion  of  the  senses,  in  becoming, 
indeed,  "divinely  animal." 

As  she  laid  down  the  book,  there  returned  to 
her  the  words  that  a  young  Roman  had  poured  into 
her  ears  one  night  on  Lake  Como : 

"The  splendors  of  this  world  and  our  accep 
tance  of  them.  Not  to  question,  but  to  feel,  with 
these  feelings  of  ours  that  a  thousand  generations 
have  made  so  complex." 

179 


SACRIFICE 

Of  a  sudden  New  York  rose  before  her,  bathed 
in  the  glitter  from  its  lights,  ringing  with  music 
and  laughter.  She  saw  the  multitudes  of  pleasure 
seekers  streaming  hither  and  thither,  immersing 
themselves  in  startling  hues  and  sounds,  in  abnor 
mal  spectacles  and  freshly  discovered  impulses, 
which  the  priests  of  this  new-old  cult  provided  for 
them  benignly  in  ever  more  exacerbating  forms 
and  combinations.  There,  possibly,  amid  those 
emotions  gradually  approaching  a  Dionysiac 
frenzy,  was  the  logical  Mecca  of  her  long  pilgrim 
age,  the  end  of  all  this  hunger  for  sensuous  reac 
tions — for  the  pleasures  that  came  from  strange 
fragrances  and  harmonies,  from  contacts  with 
precious  fabrics  and  the  patina  of  perfect  porce 
lains,  from  the  perception  of  matchless  color  in 
painted  canvas  and  gems,  or  from  the  grace  that 
was  fluent  in  the  moving  bodies  of  human  beings 
and  beasts  ? 

She  rose,  turning  away  from  those  books,  and 
from  the  room  full  of  objects  whose  textures  were 
finer  and  more  lasting  than  flesh.  Crossing  the 
hall,  she  entered  the  fernery,  where  palms  rose 
against  the  stone  arches  of  the  windows,  and  hang 
ing  baskets  overflowed  with  long  tendrils  above  a 
wicker  couch  that  was  covered  with  red  cushions. 
It  was  the  last  refuge  of  the  flowers.  Beyond  the 
leaded  panes  some  snowflakes  were  floating  down 
upon  the  flagstone  paths  of  the  garden. 

180 


SACRIFICE 

Her  gaze  was  attracted  to  some  potted  roses 
languishing  in  a  corner. 

She  recalled  having  read  somewhere,  "The  color 
is  in  us,  not  in  the  rose."  She  fell  to  wondering 
about  the  miracle  of  sight,  in  fact  of  all  the  senses, 
through  which  one  derived  from  vibrations  a  seem 
ing  impression  of  surrounding  things,  and  called 
this  impression  reality. 

Of  Avhat  nature  were  those  vibrations  ?  Did  they 
truly  explain  the  objects  from  which  they  issued? 
Suppose  the  senses  caught  only  the  least  of  them, 
or  misinterpreted  them?  In  that  case  one  might  be 
surrounded  by  things  wholly  different  from  what 
one  believed  them  to  be,  awesome  things  which 
might  be  either  exquisite  or  frightful.  She  stood 
horrified  by  this  thought.  The  familiar  world 
seemed  to  be  dissolving  in  a  mist,  just  as  in  her 
childhood :  and  through  the  mist  she  perceived  im 
mense,  vague  apparitions,  at  once  monstrous  and 
beautiful. 

"  Ah !  why  must  these  things  come  to  me  ?  What 
crime  have  I  ever  committed?" 

The  huge,  invisible  cat  was  resuming  its  play 
with  the  mouse. 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "the  capacity  for  pleasure 
is  balanced  by  the  capacity  for  suffering.  The 
more  subtle  our  happy  sensations,  the  more  pierc 
ing  our  painful  ones.  Yet  the  thrill  from  pleasure 
is  gradually  deadened  by  repetition,  and  finally, 
with  the  passage  of  time,  the  senses  no  longer  feel 

181 


SACRIFICE 

it ;  but  all  the  while  that  pleasure  is  diminishing, 
pain  increases.  After  all,  what  a  tragical  farce! 
Is  there  nothing  else,  nothing  better?" 

Lilla  began  again  to  shrink  from  life,  to  mistrust 
it. 

She  suffered  from  trivial,  groundless  fears, 
which  she  magnified,  then  abruptly  forgot.  Grow 
ing  thinner,  she  found  herself  enervated  as  in  the 
days  of  her  mourning  for  Lawrence  Teck,  and  all 
the  while  something  at  once  indefinite  and  priceless 
seemed  to  be  lost  to  her.  In  the  midst  of  her  sad 
ness  she  would  have  fleeting  perceptions  of  blue 
water,  felucca  sails,  a  town  on  the  edge  of  a  lake — 
maybe  Lausanne — a  room  where  she  sat  obediently 
asleep  in  a  deep  leather  chair. 

Now  and  again  she  woke  in  the  morning  with 
dim  impressions  of  having  dreamed  a  dream  of  in 
expressible  grandeur,  of  supernatural  joy,  in  some 
place  that  she  could  not  remember,  and  with  some 
person  whose  face  she  could  not  recall.  But  as 
soon  as  she  was  wide  awake  all  recollections  of 
the  dream  passed  away.  She  found  herself  bur 
dened  with  the  same  unaccountable  distress  that 
she  had  taken  to  bed  with  her  last  night. 

"All  this  preoccupation  with  myself!  It  must 
end  to-day." 

She  determined  to  lose  herself  in  David,  to  live 
and  think  and  feel  for  him  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

IN  the  forests  of  the  Mambava,  in  groves  of 
banana  trees,  the  peaked,  thatched  roofs  of  Muene- 
Motapa's  stronghold  rose  in  concentric  circles 
round  the  royal  houses. 

Here,  all  day  long,  one  heard  the  bleating  of 
goats  and  fat-tailed  sheep,  the  coo  and  whirr  of 
pigeons,  the  thump  of  wooden  mortars  in  which  the 
women,  their  nude  bodies  covered  with  intricate 
designs  of  scars,  were  grinding  millet.  At  times 
these  noises  were  pierced  by  the  clatter  of  little 
hammers,  with  which  the  smiths  were  beating  into 
spear  blades  the  lumps  of  iron  smelted  in  rude 
furnaces  from  ferriferous  quartz.  It  was  an 
hereditary  art.  Who  had  taught  it  to  them?  Per 
haps  the  hook-nosed  voyagers  from  the  Phrenician 
coast,  who  had  bequeathed  to  them  also  a  nebulous 
religious  awe  of  fire,  of  the  sun,  and  also  of  the 
moon,  personified  in  legend  by  a  pale,  ardent,  su 
pernatural  woman  of  surpassing  beauty. 

In  their  low  verandas  the  warriors  reclined  at 
full  length,  their  bangles  of  copper  jingling  as  they 
reached  out  their  hands  toward  the  calabashes  full 
of  palm  wine,  or  the  smoking  gourds  charged  with 

183 


SACRIFICE 

hemp.  At  the  gate  of  the  king's  stockade  the 
guards  sat  with  their  stabbing  spears  across  their 
knees,  surrounded  by  wolflike  dogs  and  naked  chil 
dren  with  distended  abdomens. 

It  was  in  the  royal  enclosure  that  Lawrence  Teck 
had  endured  his  captivity. 

Beside  him,  waking  and  sleeping,  there  remained 
two  guards,  so  that  in  Muene-Motapa's  capital 
there  was  a  lucid  riddle,  "What  is  it  that  casts 
three  shadows  ? ' '  Those  two  prehistoric  warriors 
were  aware  of  an  incomprehensible  great  value 
locked  up  in  the  captive's  mind;  yet  at  his  first 
false  movement  they  would  have  slaughtered  him, 
destroying  cheerfully,  like  many  others  before 
them,  what  they  could  never  hope  to  understand. 
However,  they  were  kind  to  him,  holding  palm 
leaves  over  his  head  when  he  crossed  the  court 
yards  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  cooling  his  wrists 
when  he  fell  ill  with  fever,  and  at  night,  if  they 
spoke  to  each  other  across  his  body,  keeping  their 
voices  low  so  as  not  to  break  his  sleep.  King 
Muene-Motapa  had  said  to  them  long  ago : 

"If  he  escapes,  you  shall  be  beaten  to  death  with 
sticks ;  but  if  he  tells  me  that  you  have  not  treated 
him  respectfully,  soldier  ants  shall  eat  you  alive." 

For  despite  his  chains,  Lawrence  Teck  was  the* 
chosen  friend  of  the  king. 

Muene-Motapa  had  been  fond  of  him  even  be 
fore  the  drunken  riot  in  which  he  got  his  wounds. 
This  friendship  had  then  become  a  proprietary 

184 


SACRIFICE 

emotion,  a  compound  of  affection,  remorse,  the 
fear  of  revenge,  and  even  a  sort  of  proselytizing 
zeal  mixed  up  with  self-interest.  Muene-Motapa 
hoped  that  in  time  his  prisoner  would  renounce  all 
desire  for  the  white  world,  embrace  the  beliefs  and 
habits  of  the  Mambava,  become  a  subtle  counselor 
in  diplomacy  as  well  as  in  wars  of  conquest.  In 
short,  those  tales  of  the  lands  beyond  these  for 
ests — the  wiles  of  Islam,  the  methods  by  which  the 
Europeans  were  eating  up  Africa — had  revived  in 
the  king  the  incoherent  and  grandiose  dreams  of 
his  youth.  In  this  captive,  whom  he  would  some 
day  make  his  brother,  co-priest,  and  fellow  gen 
eral,  he  had  found  the  knowledge  to  supplement 
his  force,  and  make  himself  invincible. 

So,  night  after  night  he  repeated  the  same  plea, 
sitting  in  the  royal  pavilion,  across  the  fire  from 
the  white  man  whose  guards  had  been  sent  out  of 
doors. 

Muene-Motapa  was  tall,  muscular,  bold  of  ges 
ture  and  fierce  of  face.  His  word  was  life  and 
death.  Day  and  night  he  was  surrounded  by 
chiefs,  councilors,  wizards,  and  royal  ladies  who 
roared  with  laughter  when  he  smiled,  gnashed  their 
teeth  when  he  frowned,  accompanied  his  every 
comment  with  moans  of  admiration  and  a  soft 
snapping  of  their  fingers.  They  were  round  him 
now,  aligned  against  the  wattled  walls,  behind  the 
film  of  wood  smoke;  breathlessly  awaiting  the 
sound  of  his  deep  voice. 

185 


SACRIFICE 

He  began,  in  a  chanting  tone,  to  rehearse  the 
past  glories  of  the  blacks.  He  spoke  of  that  great 
ancestor  of  his,  that  other  Muene-Motapa,  whose 
kingdom  had  extended  from  the  country  of  the 
Bushmen  to  the  Indian  Ocean,  and  from  Nyasa- 
land  to  Delagoa  Bay.  Then  the  white  men  had 
come. 

"The  flies  destroyed  the  horses.  The  fevers 
burned  up  the  men.  Those  who  survived,  my  fore 
fathers  pierced  with  their  spears.  Have  I  shown 
you  the  trophies,  Bangana,  the  hats  of  steel,  the 
corselets  of  steel,  the  guns  that  one  fires  by  light 
ing  a  string?  My  forefathers  gave  those  things 
to  their  children  for  toys,  and  grass  grew  through 
the  bones  of  those  white  men.  But  there  came 
more,  and  more,  and  more,  swarming  over  all  the 
land,  till  now  my  country  alone  is  free  from  them. 
Shall  that  be  ?  Have  I  eaten  rabbits  ?  Am  I  some 
village  headman?  When  I  stamp  my  foot  seven 
thousand  spearmen  spring  from  the  ground.  I 
am  Muene-Motapa!" 

In  the  crimson  glow  from  the  ashes  the  chief 
tains,  the  councilors,  and  the  wizards  raised  their 
faces  which  were  convulsed  with  rage.  The  wat 
tled  walls  hurled  back  a  deafening  chorus  of  war 
cries. 

The  king  drank  from  a  gourdful  of  cashew- 
brandy,  wiped  his  lips,  and  shouted : 

"Consent,  Bangana!  Consent,  Mfondolo,  who 
might  be  my  brother  lion,  pouncing  upon  army 

186 


SACRIFICE 

after  army,  as  the  lion  pounces  upon  the  antelope. 
I  have  shown  you  the  Zimbabwe,  the  stone  cities  of 
the  ancients.  With  slaves  we  will  dig  the  gold  out 
of  the  quartz  reefs,  buy  guns  from  the  Arabs,  and 
drive  these  little  yellow-skinned  white  men  back 
into  the  sea.  We  two  will  rule  over  the  land  of 
my  ancestors,  the  kingdom  of  the  first  Muene- 
Motapa.  Through  your  mouth  we  will  treat  with 
the  English,  the  Arabs,  and  all  the  world  as  equals. 
I  will  not  kill  you,  because  you  will  be  my  mind. 
Besides,  I  love  you." 

At  a  wave  of  his  hand,  behind  the  veils  of  smoke 
the  women  of  the  royal  household  rose  and  de 
parted,  their  symmetrically  scarred  torsoes  shin 
ing  with  oil,  so  that  they  resembled  statues  of  pol 
ished  bronze.  They  were  slender,  graceful,  in 
formed  with  the  gentleness  of  those  reared  in  the 
shadow  of  royalty,  showing  profiles  that  suggested 
the  faces  chiseled  on  Semitic  monuments.  Fringes 
of  bark  cloth  hung  down  from  their  yellow  girdles 
to  their  knees ;  over  their  breasts  dangled  strings 
of  pearls  and  amber  beads  from  Bazaruto;  each 
wore  on  the  middle  of  her  forehead  a  charm  in 
tended  to  make  her  fortunate  in  marriage.  They 
left  behind  them  an  odor  of  cheap  German  per 
fumes,  which  Mohammedan  traders  had  brought 
to  the  edge  of  these  forests. 

When  they  had  passed  beyond  earshot — for  the 
mention  of  sacred  things  was  not  to  be  thought  of 

187 


SACRIFICE 

while  women  sat  within  hearing — the  king  con 
tinued  : 

"What  more  can  I  do  to  show  you  that  I  love 
you,  Bangana?  I  have  initiated  you  into  the  mys 
teries  of  my  people.  You  know  the  ceremonies  of 
the  dead,  of  those  who  become  of  age.  I  have 
shown  you  where  the  fire  is  kept  from  which,  once 
a  year,  all  the  fires  in  my  kingdom  are  rekindled. 
I  have  told  you  which  mountains  and  streams  are 
holy.  I  have  admitted  you  even  into  the  secret  of 
my  own  divinity.  Nay,  I  have  done  still  more.  I 
have  let  you  see  my  people  dance  for  the  Lady 
of  the  Moon." 

There  was  a  silence. 

Lawrence  Teck  remained  as  before,  his  bearded 
face  bowed  down;  but  a  slight  tremor  of  horror 
passed  through  his  shoulders  under  the  sun-black 
ened  skin. 

The  Dances  of  the  Moon!  Yes,  he  had  seen 
them,  one  time  when  he  was  weak  from  fever  and 
despair.  All  the  frightfulness  of  Africa  had  then 
been  made  manifest  to  him  at  last,  as  if  the  very 
soul  of  destruction  had  condensed  itself  out  of  the 
vapors,  venoms  and  invisible  menaces  of  these 
primeval  forests,  to  assume,  for  one  night,  a  horde 
of  nearly  human  shapes.  But  he  shuddered  not  at 
his  memory  of  that  spectacle,  but  at  its  effect  on 
him — an  effect  that  he  had  denied  with  a  passion 
ate,  clanking  gesture  of  his  chained  arms,  yet  that 
had  remained  in  the  depths  of  his  brain  like  a  ser- 

188 


SACRIFICE 

pent,  which  had  always  slept  till  then,  and  had  ever 
since  been  gnawing  at  his  thoughts. 

He  recalled  the  deafening  thunder  of  the  drums, 
the  glare  and  the  blood,  the  moon  peering  down 
through  the  branches  like  the  face  of  a  perverse 
divinity  pale  from  pride,  and  the  thought  that  had 
come  to  him  there,  in  his  sickness  and  lonely  hope 
lessness — that  while  some  in  a  fit  of  decrepitude 
and  despair  might  turn  to  God,  others  might  turn 
to  the  oblivion  promised  by  evil. 

Raising  his  head,  he  called  out  in  a  voice  as 
strong  as  the  king's: 

"Still  dreaming,  Muene-Motapa  ?  Awake,  and 
let  me  go!" 

The  king  leaped  to  his  feet,  to  pace  the  earthen 
floor.  His  kilt  of  leopards'  paws  swayed  from 
side  to  side ;  his  amulets  jingled ;  his  shaven  head 
glistened  amid  the  shadows,  like  an  ebony  ball. 
His  court  bowed  their  naked  bodies,  muttering : 

"Father  of  elephants!  He  shall  stamp  on  this 
man,  and  his  foot  shall  shake  the  whole  earth!" 

Muene-Motapa  bitterly  asked  his  captive: 

"Is  there  not  always  rich  meat,  and  beer  and 
brandy  in  season?  I  have  also  hundreds  of  women 
who  are  young,  as  slender  as  palm  trees,  with  teeth 
like  milk.  I  will  buy  women  from  the  Arabs,  with 
red  or  tawny  skin  and  straight  hair  like  water 
falls.  I  will  send  men  to  steal  the  women  of 
Mozambique — white  women  with  hair  brighter 
than  firelight.  Why  do  you  not  marry  my  little 

189 


SACRIFICE 

sisters,  my  brother?  They  pine  away  for  yon. 
Or  is  it  wealth?  I  know  the  little  bible  that  you 
carry  in  that  pouch !  When  you  look  into  it,  you 
remember  all  the  quartz  reefs  in  the  gorges  of  the 
mountains  beyond  my  forests,  with  their  veins  of 
gold  and  of  gray  and  yellow  copper ;  and  the  river 
sands  full  of  gold ;  and  the  places  where  you  have 
seen  the  iron  that  draws  iron,  and  the  tin,  and  the 
black  grease.  But  I  have  already  told  you  that 
you  shall  be  rich.  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Bangana?  Are  you  deaf?" 

He  squatted  down  before  Lawrence  Teck,  and 
thrust  forward  his  angry  face;  and  his  pendent, 
pear-shaped  earrings  of  jasper,  which  some  Phoe 
nician  adventurer  had  worn  perhaps  four  thousand 
years  ago,  quivered  as  he  shouted  with  all  his 
might  : 

"Are  you  deaf,  I  say?  Shall  I  open  your  ears 
with  a  spear  point!" 

He  stared  in  stupefaction  at  Lawrence  Teck's 
stony  countenance,  then  suddenly  burst  into  sobs. 

"See  how  I  love  him!"  he  moaned,  "and  yet  he 
hates  me;  and  I  shall  never  be  great." 

The  prisoner  thought  to  himself,  "Now,  if  ever, 
is  the  time."  He  laid  his  hands  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  king  with  a  movement  at  once  commanding 
and  compassionate.  All  the  courtiers  stopped 
weeping  to  gasp  in  consternation  at  this  sacrilege ; 
one  or  two  stood  up ;  and  in  the  shadows  a  blade 
of  steel  returned  the  crimson  gleam  of  the  embers. 

190 


SACRIFICE 

Lawrence  Teck  said  gently,  as  if  talking  to  a 
child: 

1  'Alas!  my  brother,  I  should  lead  you  only  to 
some  death  unbefitting  a  king.  You  were  happy 
before  you  made  me  your  captive;  these  chains 
have  tormented  you  as  much  as  me.  Strike  them 
off,  and  let  me  go.  Forget  me,  and  free  yourself 
from  vain  thoughts." 

"I  should  not  forget  you,  Bangana,"  the  king 
responded  in  a  small,  thin  tone,  as  though  the 
virile  resonance  of  his  voice  had  passed  away  with 
all  his  nai've  and  grandiose  hopes.  ''All  those 
tales !  To  whom  shall  I  listen  now  at  night  ?  Be 
sides,  it  has  been  good  to  see  you  here  every  day ; 
for  you  alone  in  these  forests  have  really  under 
stood  my  heart — and  have  stabbed  it  to  death  with 
your  wisdom." 

He  pondered  dismally,  while  the  councilors  and 
chieftains  wept  out  his  unexpressed  grief,  so  that 
the  whole  pavilion  was  filled  with  their  full- 
throated  sobbing. 

"Will  you  ever  return,  Bangana?" 

"Why  not?  To  persuade  you  to  peace  instead 
of  war.  To  make  treaties  for  the  passage  of  my 
workmen  through  your  forests  to  the  new  mines, 
and  to  give  your  people  work  if  they  will  accept 
it." 

The  king  closed  his  eyes. 

"All  that  again!  What  are  these  white  man's 
promises?  Have  they  made  the  other  tribes 

191 


SACRIFICE 

happy  in  their  slavery?  No,  my  face  will  be  glad 
when  yon  return  to  see  me ;  but  never  ask  me  to 
let  the  white  foot  wedge  itself  in  the  door  of  my 
country.  There  would  only  be  a  great  battle  with 
out  you  to  help  me  in  it.  I  and  my  race,  if  we 
cannot  be  mighty,  at  least  will  die  f ree  men. ' ' 

He  rose  from  his  heels,  and  in  a  strangling  voice 
called  out  to  the  guards,  who  came  headlong, 
stooping,  through  the  low  entrance  of  the  pavilion, 
with  bared  teeth  and  darting  spears. 

" Strike  off  the  chains  from  my  brother!'5 
shouted  Muene-Motapa,  as  one  should  say,  "Slay 
my  dreams!" 

Then  he  stalked  away,  to  sit  alone  in  darkness. 

Next  day,  with  an  escort  of  Mambava  warriors, 
Lawrence  Teck  set  out  for  the  coast. 

At  the  bidding  of  the  king,  to  do  honor  to  the 
white  man  who  was  leaving  them,  they  had  put  on 
their  gala  paint,  and  their  plumed  headgear  bound 
under  their  chins  with  fur  lappets.  Their  bangles 
made  a  cheerful  clatter  as  they  marched  along  the 
dim  trails  between  the  enormous  trees.  They  car 
ried  food  for  two  weeks. 

Emerging  from  the  forests,  they  saw  the  low 
lands  steaming  in  the  heat ;  for  while  it  was  win 
ter  in  America,  here  it  was  summer. 

They  traversed  plateaux  that  were  dotted  with 
islets  of  jungle,  plains  covered  with  flowers  and 
drenched  with  torrential  rains,  misty  marshes  that 
suggested  landscapes  of  the  Paleozoic  Age.  They 

192 


SACRIFICE 

saw  sodden  herds  of  zebras,  the  tracks  of  leopards, 
acacia  trees  uprooted  by  elephants.  In  a  glade 
filled  with  blossoms  of  every  color  they  came  upon 
a  family  of  lions,  one  of  which  they  headed  off  and 
deftly  killed  with  their  spears. 

The  plumes  of  the  warriors  bobbed  along  in  sin 
gle  file ;  at  sunset  the  spear  blades  seemed  still  wet 
with  blood.  They  raised  their  long  shields, 
adorned  with  crude  geometrical  designs,  and  sang 
for  the  white  man  a  rambling  song  of  parting. 

"But  he  will  return  some  day  to  bask  in  the 
countenance  of  Muene-Motapa. " 

They  all  took  up  the  refrain : 

"To  bask  in  the  countenance  of  Muene-Mo 
tapa!" 

Their  voices  rose  strongly,  full  of  exultation. 
On  a  branch  above  them,  a  python,  awakened  by 
those  vibrations,  revealed  itself  in  an  iridescent 
gliding  of  its  coils. 

Suddenly,  on  the  edge  of  a  jungle  of  bamboo, 
they  stood  still.  Far  off  appeared  the  bastions  of 
a  fort,  of  whitewashed  stone,  mottled  and  streaked 
with  green.  A  flag  was  hanging  limply  from  the 
flagstaff. 

His  two  shadows,  in  bidding  him  farewell,  be 
gan  to  weep,  their  tears  running  over  the  white 
grease  paint  with  which  their  cheeks  were  be 
daubed.  They  turned  away  with  a  choking  cry: 

"Farewell!" 

193 


SACRIFICE 

" Farewell!"  all  the  other  warriors  uttered  in 
unison,  fiercely,  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  Their 
howl  passed  over  his  head,  like  a  defiance,  toward 
the  distant  fort. 

So  Lawrence  Teck  returned  to  civilization. 


CHAPTER  XXXVin 

THE  commandant  of  the  district,  a  melancholy, 
flaccid  man  with  a  saffron-colored  visage  that 
looked  like  a  half-deflated  balloon,  a  martyr  to 
prickly  heat,  anaemia,  and  monotony,  peered  up 
from  under  the  moving  punkah,  to  inquire  of  his 
subordinate  in  the  doorway: 

"He  is  still  sitting  there  alone?" 

"In  the  same  position,"  the  subordinate  as 
sented. 

"I  wish  now  that  I  hadn 't  shown  it  to  him, ' '  said 
the  commandant  of  Fort  Pero  d'Anhaya,  the  dis 
trict  judge,  the  chief  of  the  public  works,  the  re 
ceiver  of  taxes,  the  collector  of  revenues,  the 
postmaster,  the  poor  exile  prematurely  aged  by 
the  African  sun,  the  sorry  "hero  on  the  outposts 
of  civilization." 

The  subordinate  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
retorted : 

"They  would  have  told  him  on  the  coast." 

"No  doubt,"  said  the  commandant,  giving  the 
other  a  veiled  look  of  animosity,  expressing  thus  a 
little  of  that  loathing  which  had  gradually  come 
to  embrace  everything  habitual  to  this  pitiless  and 

195 


SACRIFICE 

violently  beautiful  land.  And  when  the  subordi- 
nate  had  withdrawn,  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
returned  to  his  apathetic  contemplation  of  the 
papers  on  his  desk,  "All  the  same,  an  ideal!  And 
I  killed  it  for  him  a  few  days  before  there  was 
any  real  need." 

The  moist  heat  of  the  equatorial  summer  pene 
trated  the  embrasures  of  the  fort,  and  made 
stifling  even  the  dim,  whitewashed  room  where 
Lawrence  Teck  was  sitting.  Dusky  from  the  sun, 
and  seeming  more  aquiline  than  ever  in  his  gaunt- 
ness,  he  remained  like  an  effigy  in  the  suit  of  white 
duck  that  hung  round  him  in  loose  folds,  without 
so  much  as  a  movement  of  his  eyes.  His  hand 
rested  on  a  tattered  copy  of  an  English  journal. 

The  commandant  had  extracted  this  journal 
from  a  pile  of  newspapers  and  magazines  of  half 
a  dozen  countries,  all  thumbed  and  ragged  from 
perusals  that  had  embraced  the  most  trivial  adver 
tisements,  and  all  still  precious  because  by  their 
aid  one's  spirit  could  fly  home.  This  London 
journal  contained  at  the  bottom  of  a  page,  amid 
some  gossip  about  music  in  America,  the  announce 
ment  that  "the  widow  of  Lawrence  Teck,  the  ex 
plorer,  "  had  married  the  young  composer,  David 
Verne. 

Raising  his  eyes  at  last  toward  the  casement  in 
the  embrasure,  Lawrence  Teck  saw,  against  a  glar 
ing  turquoise  sky,  the  fronds  of  a  borassus  palm, 
which  seemed,  like  all  the  rest  of  nature,  to  be 

196 


SACRIFICE 

sleeping.  He  leaped  to  his  feet,  realizing  that  he 
was  in  Africa,  still  far  from  the  coast,  and  that  at 
this  moment,  in  another  hemisphere 

The  walls,  the  sleeping  borassus  palm,  the  patch 
of  sky,  all  became  red. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  saying  to  himself  in  what 
seemed  a  jocular  tone: 

" Didn't  wait  long.  A  composer.  Think 
of  that!" 

He  stood  still,  his  bearded  face  upturned  to 
ward  the  casement.  He  let  out  a  peal  of  laughter 
that  froze  the  blood  of  the  white-robed  servants 
who  had  been  dozing  in  the  stone  corridor.  They 
crept  beyond  earshot  of  the  stranger  who,  with 
his  hips  wrapped  in  bark  cloth,  had  suddenly  ap 
peared  on  the  rim  of  the  safe  world  against  a  back 
ground  of  shields  painted  with  the  devices  of  the 
terrible  Mambava. 

But  Lawrence  Teck  quickly  recovered  an  exter 
nal  impassiveness.  He  sat  down,  and  considered : 

"How  naive  I  was.  That's  when  the  sentimen- 
talism  gushes  out,  at  the  end  of  long  journeys,  at 
the  novelty  of  elegance  and  sophistication.  One 
deifies  them  then:  one  gives  them  a  place  much 
larger  than  they  ought  to  take  up  in  life.  How 
Muene-Motapa  would  laugh !  He,  virtually  a  Neo 
lithic  man,  never  sinks  below  manly  thoughts :  his 
ambitions  are  never  enfeebled  by  the  malady  of 
sentimental  love.  So  when  he  suffers  it  is  like  a 

197 


SACRIFICE 

man,  not  like  a  descendant  of  medieval  mystics 
and  cavalieri  serventi." 

His  body  relaxed,  and  he  muttered : 

"A  bit  of  romance  for  her  in  imitation  of  some 
favorite  play  or  book.  An  emotional  hour  with  the 
man  from  Africa — and  now  a  musical  fellow." 

After  a  sharp  expulsion  of  his  breath  he  re 
sumed  that  immobility  which  extended  even  to  his 
eyes.  He  recalled  the  thoughts  of  her  that  had 
filled  his  captivity,  all  his  memories  of  their  union 
which  had  gained,  from  "the  pathos  of  distance," 
and  from  the  passage  of  time,  an  immaterial,  an 
ideal,  nobility,  till  at  last,  in  the  poetic  fancy  of 
his  lonely  heart,  she  had  become  more  remote  and 
diffuse  than  the  moonlight  on  the  mountain  peaks, 
more  intoxicating  and  elusive  than  the  odors  of 
the  equatorial  flowers,  an  influence  rather  than  a 
woman,  a  vague  hope,  a  sort  of  sanative  faith. 

It  was,  he  reflected,  all  one  with  the  romanticism 
that  had  driven  him  to  those  many  wanderings, 
the  longing  for  what  was  so  dissimilar  to  him  and 
yet  intensely  congenial — the  magical  deserts  where 
one  suffered  from  heat  and  thirst,  the  gaudy  jun 
gles  where  death  lay  in  wait  for  one,  the  woman 
who  concealed  beneath  an  appearance  of  perfec 
tion  an  incapacity  for  a  decent  period  of  grief. 
Ah,  there  was  the  perfidy  more  deadly  to  him  than 
all  the  plagues  and  vipers  and  weapons  of  Africa ! 

He  felt  a  profound  revulsion  from  his  own  na 
ture,  which  was  flawed  with  this  sentimentalism, 

198 


SACRIFICE 

this  jejune  expectancy.  At  nightfall,  rising  wear 
ily  from  his  chair,  he  wondered  how  he  was  to  go 
on  living  with  himself. 

"And  after  all  is  it  her  fault?  I  was  dead.  No 
doubt  she  shed  some  tears.  Because  I  loved  her  I 
expected  too  much  of  her." 

Through  the  casement  he  saw  a  world  fading 
away  beneath  clouds  as  black  as  ink.  A  purplish- 
gray  wall  of  rain  was  swiftly  approaching  the  fort. 
A  pink  fork  of  lightning  stood  out  against  the 
clouds:  the  crash  of  thunder  was  followed  by  a 
noise  like  a  thousand  waterfalls;  and  everything 
turned  black. 

The  rolling  thunder  recalled  to  him.  the  thunder 
of  the  Mambava  drums  at  the  Dances  of  the  Moon ; 
and  in  the  darkness  he  remembered  the  voice  of 
Muene-Motapa  pleading  with  him  to  cast  off  the 
old,  to  become  a  new  man,  to  return  amid  the  black 
forebears  of  mankind,  kill  hope  and  even  con 
science,  forget  and  be  at  peace.  In  the  turmoil  of 
the  storm  around  the  fort  and  in  his  breast  he  even 
seemed  to  see  the  king  in  apparition  before  him, 
and  to  hear  the  words : 

"Consent,  Bangana.    Consent." 

"Bah!  as  if  anything  in  life  were  worth  all  this. 
All  sound  and  fury ;  all  pompous  silliness  like  this 
storm.  Presently  there  will  not  be  an  echo  or  a 
trace  of  it." 

He  found  the  door,  burst  out  into  the  corridor, 
then  walked  sedately  under  the  flickering  lamps 

199 


SACRIFICE 

toward  the  commandant's  rooms.  That  yellow- 
visaged  man  jumped  up  from  behind  his  desk, 
stammering : 

"Yes,  it's  dinner  time." 

The  candles  on  the  dinner  table  jarred  at  the 
peals  of  thunder;  but  Lawrence  Teck  sat  impas 
sive.  Toward  the  end  of  the  meal  he  vouchsafed : 

"Have  you  reported  my  showing  up?" 

"I  was  going  to  put  it  on  the  wire  to-morrow 
morning. '  * 

"If  it  could  be  arranged  I  should  like  to  pre 
cede  the  news  to  America." 

The  commandant,  without  knowing  why,  felt  a 
touch  of  alarm. 

"Then  I'll  send  my  report  direct  to  the  gover 
nor,  and  mark  it  confidential  at  your  request. ' ' 

That  night  the  commandant,  lying  under  his 
mosquito  net,  wakeful  from  prickly  heat,  was 
haunted  by  the  face  of  Lawrence  Teck.  ' '  She  must 
be  very  beautiful,"  he  sighed.  "Why  didn't  they 
print  her  picture  ? ' '  And  he  occupied  himself  with 
trying  to  imagine  what  she  looked  like. 

By  the  time  he  was  falling  asleep  he  had  decided 
that  she  must  have  yellow  hair  and  large,  blue 
eyes.  Just  as  he  dozed  off  he  had  a  ravishing  im 
pression  of  her — a  composite  of  an  Austrian  arch 
duchess,  whose  likeness  he  had  admired  in  a  pe 
riodical,  and  a  Neapolitan  singer  who  had  over 
whelmed  him  in  a  music  hall  at  home,  long  ago, 
when  the  world  had  seemed  a  place  stored  with 

200 


SACRIFICE 

love,  fame,  and  wealth,  instead  of  with  prickly 
heat,  malaria,  and  shiny,  black  faces. 

"My  angel!"  breathed  the  poor  commandant  of 
Fort  Pero  d'Anhaya,  sleeping  for  the  first  time  in 
many  a  night  with  an  infantile  smile  on  his  coun 
tenance  that  suggested  a  half-deflated  balloon. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

HAMOUD,  wearing  the  blue  robe  edged  with  gold 
embroidery,  and  carrying  in  his  right  hand  the 
Venetian  goblet,  was  half-way  out  of  the  living- 
room  when  David  Verne  resumed : 

"No,  you  must  really  go  about  more,  or  you  will 
begin  to  hate  me.'* 

The  young  Arab  paused  beyond  the  living-room 
door,  his  handsome  head  inclined  to  one  side,  wait 
ing  for  the  response — not  for  the  words,  but  for 
the  mere  tone  of  her  voice.  He  heard : 

"While  you  are  holding  your  own,  and  working 
so  well,  I  am  happy." 

Hamoud  closed  his  eyes,  in  order  to  let  those  sil 
very  vibrations  occupy  his  whole  consciousness. 
Then,  staring  before  him,  he  went  swiftly  across 
the  wainscotted  hall  with  his  lithe,  noiseless  step, 
escaping  before  that  other  voice  could  break  the 
spell. 

David  Verne,  in  his  wheel  chair  that  stood  be 
side  a  tall  lamp,  gave  her  a  furtive  look,  before 
continuing : 

"Is  it  always  happiness  that  I  discover  on  your 
face?  Is  that  what  you  show  me  when  you  raise 
your  eyes  blankly  from  some  book,  or  return  from 

2C2 


SACRIFICE 

the  garden  after  those  lonely  walks  of  yours  in  the 
twilight?  Or  is  it  pity,  not  only  for  me,  but  also 
for  yourself?  Is  it  then  that  you  see  clearly  what 
you've  let  yourself  in  for — what  that  divine  im 
pulse  of  yours  has  brought  you  to  ?  " 

" David!"  she  protested,  her  nerves  contract 
ing  at  this  threat  of  a  scene  that  must  lacerate  both 
their  hearts. 

But  he  persisted : 

"I  don't  disbelieve  what  you  told  me  about  Rys- 
broek.  It's  not  he  that  I'm  jealous  of.  I  can  even 
believe  that  there's  no  other  living  man  in  your 
thoughts.  The  powers  that  I  can  never  hope  to 
conquer  don't  have  to  exist  in  the  present,  in  or 
der  to  frighten  me.  They  have  only  to  exist  in  the 
past  and  in  the  future.  Of  course  the  man  who  is 
dead  will  always  triumph  over  me  by  comparison. 
And  some  day,  since  mortals  are  bound  to  strive 
for  a  duplication  of  their  happiest  moments,  an 
other  will  appear  to  promise  you  that  duplica 
tion." 

How  young  he  seemed  in  the  light  of  the  tall 
lamp,  despite  all  his  former  physical  sufferings 
and  his  present  anxieties !  Again  there  was  a  look 
of  childish  pain  on  his  lips,  and  in  his  large  eyes 
humid  beneath  the  brow  that  harbored  thoughts 
of  a  magnificent  precocity.  Again  compassion 
filled  her  at  sight  of  this  weakness,  this  helpless 
ness.  She  returned : 

"How  can  you  say  such  things?  When  I  refuse 
203 


SACRIFICE 

to  go  anywhere,  because  you  couldn't  go  with  me 

without  being  bored " 

"You  mean,  without  feeling  my  inferiority." 
"Is  it  inferiority  to  be  the  great  artist  that  you 
are  T  What  wickedness !  You,  with  your  genius, 
aren't  satisfied,  but  envy  those  commonplace  men 
because  their  bodies  move  easily  from  place  to 
place.  Can  their  minds  soar  up  like  yours?" 
"Perhaps  not — nor  sink  into  such  depths." 
She  rose,  to  approach  the  long  window  against 
which  the  night  had  plastered  its  blackness.  He 
watched  her  inevitably  graceful  passage  from  the 
light  into  the  shadows,  and  her  nervous  attitude, 
as  she  stood  with  averted  face,  staring  out  through 
the  lustrous  glass.  She  was  glamorous  with  the 
material  elegance  that  always  ended  by  deriding 
him.  She  was  agitated  by  who  knew  what  secret 
thoughts  in  accordance  with  that  involuntary  with 
drawal — the  movement  of  a  prisoner  toward  the 
window  of  a  cell. 

"Let's  not  deny  the  facts  of  life,"  he  began 
again.  l  i  Or  pretend  with  each  other.  Pity  doesn  't 
make  one  incorporeal.  All  your  angelic  compas 
sion  can't  transform  you  from  a  woman  into  an 
angel,  especially  when  you  see,  at  every  glance  in 
your  mirror,  the  charms  that  a  moment  of  gener 
osity  has  made  futile." 

She  came  to  him  quickly,  knelt  down  beside  the 
wheel  chair,  and  put  round  him  her  bare,  slender 
arms. 

204 


SACRIFICE 

"Don't  you  know  that  I  love  you,  David?" 

"There  are  so  many  kinds  of  love,"  he  sighed, 
gazing  at  her  dark  eyes  that  once  had  flamed  with 
passion,  at  her  fragile  lips  that  had  uttered  such 
words  as  he  was  never  to  hear,  at  her  whole  pale- 
brown  countenance  that  would  never  express  for 
him  what  it  had  expressed  for  the  other. 

"I  want  nothing  else,"  she  affirmed,  in  a  voice 
wherein  no  one  could  have  found  any  insincerity. 

"Perhaps  you  believe  even  that.  But  when  it 
comes  to  you,  then  you'll  realize  what  a  trap  I've 
caught  you  in."  He  gave  her  a  look  of  horror. 
"Why  did  you  go  there  that  afternoon  to  Bran- 
tome's?  When  you  saw  me  there,  sitting  alone  in 
the  shadows,  dying  with  no  weight  on  my  con 
science,  why  didn't  you  leave  me  alone?  But 
maybe  you  had  no  idea  of  the  effect  you  were  go 
ing  to  produce  on  me — that  your  look,  and  voice, 
and  mind,  were  what  I'd  always  been  waiting  for. 
Or  since  you  had  come  there  why  couldn't  my  con 
science  die  at  the  moment  when  you  made  me  live 
again?  But  instead  of  dying,  my  conscience  is 
becoming  more  and  more  alive." 

He  bit  his  lips  to  keep  back  a  groan.  She  de 
clared  : 

"You're  harming  yourself  again.  You  won't 
be  able  to  work  to-morrow." 

"What  is  my  work  worth,  if  it  dooms  you  to 
this?"  Presently  he  said  in  a  quiet  tone,  "It 
would  be  easy  to  free  you. ' ' 

205 


SACRIFICE 

"Ah,  you  are  horrible!" 

"Don't  be  afraid.  If  there  is  anywhere  beyond 
this  life,  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  heaven,  it 
would  seem  inferior  to  this  house,  where  I  can  see 
you  without  possessing  the  love  that  you're  ca 
pable  of,  and  hear  your  voice  utter  these  incredible 
reassurances.  Yes,  my  conscience  torments  me, 
but  not  enough  for  that.  While  I  may,  I'll  hold 
on  to  you  and  to  life,  even  when  I  feel  sure  that 
your  thoughts  are  turning  elsewhere,  and  even  if 
it  comes  to  pass  that  your  bodily  self  must  follow 
those  thoughts.  For  as  your  pity  returns,  so  must 
you  return  to  me.  What  a  weapon  I've  found  in 
pity!  What  a  victory  it  will  bring  me!  Some 
other  man  may  end  by  winning  yourself;  but  I, 
as  long  as  I  can  keep  my  grip  on  life,  will  cling  to 
this  ghost  of  you!" 

"Do  you  do  this  just  in  order  to  drive  me  mad! " 
she  cried. 

"No,  you  would  understand  if  you  could  see 
into  my  soul.  All  its  surgings  and  clashings,  its 
vortexes  of  pain  and  joy,  the  anguish  that  some 
how  produces  an  audible  beauty,  and  the  ecstasies 
that  are  struck  mute  by  these  fears !  If  I  could 
explain  all  that,  you  would  forgive  me  for  these 
moments  that  are  beyond  my  control.  But  I  can't 
explain  it.  Not  even  in  my  music.  One  is  always 
alone  with  one's  heart." 

Taking  his  twitching  face  between  her 'hands, 
she  showed  him  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

206 


SACRIFICE 

"But  I  do  understand,"  she  protested. 

If  she  did,  it  was  because  she  also  was  alone. 

That  night,  as  she  was  going  to  her  own  room, 
she  saw  Hamoud  in  the  upper  corridor.  Some 
thing  forlorn  and  lost  in  his  exotic  aspect  struck 
through  her  sadness:  she  remembered  how  far 
from  home  this  exile  was,  how  far  removed  also 
from  the  rank  to  which  he  had  been  born.  She 
hesitated,  then  asked  remorsefully: 

"Do  you  hate  me,  Hamoud?" 

He  turned  pale,  standing  before  her  with  the 
wall  light  shining  upon  his  face  of  a  young  caliph. 

"I,  madam?" 

"Well,  for  what  I've  got  you  into:  this  service, 
which  must  distress  you  every  day.  But  what  was 
there  to  do  ?  It  offered  itself  when  I — you,  too,  I 
suppose — could  think  of  nothing  else." 

Hamoud-bin-Said,  paler  than  ever,  replied  in 
Arabic : 

"You  are  soriy  for  me  because  I  have  lost  my 
heshma,  my  prestige  ?  It  is  part  of  the  divine  wis 
dom,  the  foreordained  plan  of  my  life.  All  things 
happen  for  the  best.  The  house  is  warm,  so  that 
one  does  not  feel  the  winter.  There  is  food,  so 
that  one  does  not  starve.  Therefore,  my  body  is 

at  peace "  He  paused  to  compress  his  car- 

nelian  lips,  before  concluding  serenely,  "And  as 
for  my  soul,  it  rests  as  always  in  the  palm  of  God, 
like  a  bird  waiting  to  be  taught  its  ways." 


CHAPTER  XL 

WHEN  Lilla  and  David  went  driving  through  the 
country,  Hamoud  prowled  all  over  the  house. 

He  entered  the  study,  to  stare  at  the  autographed 
music  framed  on  the  walls,  the  manuscript  strewn 
over  the  center  table,  the  open  piano.  A  look  of 
contempt  appeared  upon  his  face :  for  one  reason, 
perhaps,  because  he  belonged  to  the  Ibathi  sect, 
who  looked  askance  at  music,  disdaining  even  the 
cantatas  about  the  Birth  of  the  Prophet.  He  went 
out  of  the  study  in  a  rage,  slammed  the  folding 
doors  behind  him,  and  stood  eyeing  the  damask- 
covered  chair  in  which  she  usually  sat. 

He  recalled  the  old  tales  of  the  lovers,  he  a  Mo 
hammedan  and  she  a  Christian,  who  always  fled 
away  on  a  magic  carpet  to  the  safety  of  Islam. 

If  it  was  an  hour  appointed  for  prayer,  he  went 
up  to  his  room,  closed  the  door,  took  the  Koran 
out  of  his  Zanzibar  box,  a  carved  and  brightly 
painted  chest  bound  with  iron  and  furnished  with 
padlocks.  He  opened  the  Koran,  but  recited  the 
verses  from  memory,  trying  to  feel  behind  the 
words  the  esoteric  meanings  expounded  in  the  com 
mentaries.  This  done,  he  took  out  from  his  bosom 

208 


SACEIFICE 

the  talisman  that  he  wore  attached  to  a  silver 
chain — a  silver  disc  having  on  one  side  a  square 
made  up  of  sacred  characters,  and  on  the  other 
side  the  seal  of  Solomon.  The  talisman  recalled 
to  him  the  careless  days  of  good  fortune ;  and  he 
became  homesick. 

Thereupon  he  produced  a  little  censer,  kindled 
a  piece  of  charcoal,  and  sprinkled  the  coal  with 
aloes,  gum  incense,  and  musk.  Sitting  on  his  heels, 
with  the  censer  between  his  small  hands,  he  low 
ered  his  face  toward  the  fumes,  became  drunk  with 
sad  memories.  His  tears  hissed  on  the  red  coal, 
and  through  a  glittering  film  he  saw  the  ancestral 
house,  the  blush  of  the  clove  trees,  the  deep  blue 
sea  with  the  dhows  slipping  out  toward  Muscat. 
He  dried  his  eyes,  put  everything  away,  concealed 
in  his  palm  a  tiny,  empty,  square  vial  of  glass 
enameled  with  gold.  He  appeared  in  the  corridor, 
calm,  stately,  giving  a  passing  housemaid  a  look 
of  scorn. 

When  all  was  silent  he  entered  Lilla's  rooms. 

Hamoud  drew  in  through  his  expanded  nostrils 
the  unique  fragrance  of  this  place,  and  trembled 
as  he  looked  round  him  at  the  walls  of  French 
gray,  the  faintly  orange  hangings,  all  the  charm 
ing  objects  that  were  so  artfully  arranged.  He 
passed  into  her  bedroom,  stood  pensive  before  the 
dressing  table  whose  mirrors  were  accustomed  to 
reflect  her,  reached  out  to  touch  the  handles  of 
her  brushes,  as  if  expecting  them  to  be  still  warm 

209 


SACRIFICE 

from  her  hands.  He  remembered  the  tiny  empty 
vial,  at  the  same  moment  that  he  heard  the  car 
returning. 

Lilla,  on  entering  her  bedroom,  found  the  air 
heavier  than  usual  with  her  perfume.  It  occurred 
to  her  that  one  of  the  servants  must  have  been 
taking  some;  and  she  was  vexed  to  think  that  a 
housemaid  should  go  to  meet  a  sweetheart  wear 
ing  the  fragrance  that  a  Viennese  expert  in  odors 
had  concocted  "to  express  her  special  tempera 
ment.  ' ' 


CHAPTER  XLI 

Now  and  then,  craving  a  glimpse  of  the  gay 
streets  and  the  shops,  Lilla  went  into  town  "to 
see  that  everything  was  all  right"  in  the  house  on 
lower  Fifth  Avenue,  or  else,  "to  make  sure  that 
Parr  was  comfortable. " 

One  afternoon,  at  a  stoppage  of  the  traffic  her 
limousine  came  side  by  side  with  that  of  Fanny 
Brassfield,  who  persuaded  her  to  look  in  at  a 
horse  show. 

She  found  herself  in  a  box  on  the  edge  of  an 
arena,  amid  a  concourse  of  people  whose  unre 
lated  movements  and  chatter  combined  in  a  species 
of  visible  and  audible  mist,  which  encircled  the 
spread  of  tan  bark.  In  the  midst  of  everything, 
in  the  dusty  glitter  that  poured  down  from  the 
high  roof,  horses  and  men  were  moving  like  auto 
mata.  The  thud  of  the  hoofs  was  lost  in  a  great 
buzzing  of  voices.  The  odor  of  stables  was  im 
pregnated  with  the  scent  of  winter  flowers  and 
sachets. 

Round  Lilla  there  was  an  accentuated  stir. 
Even  across  the  arena  some  women  were  staring 
through  their  glasses.  The  reporters  came  hur- 

211 


SACRIFICE 

riedly  to  verify  the  rumor  that  it  was  she.  Those 
who  were  promenading  below  the  boxes  walked 
more  slowly,  feasting  their  eyes  on  her. 

She  sat  proudly  erect,  her  fur-trimmed  cloak 
drawn  round  her  tightly;  and  none  could  have 
suspected  the  confusion  of  her  brain  after  so 
much  solitude. 

Fanny  Brassfield's  piercing  voice  struck 
through  the  fanfare  of  a  bugle : 

"Look  here,  Lilla,  I'm  giving  quite  a  dinner  to 
night.  You  stay  in  town  for  once,  and  have  a  lit 
tle  fun.  "We  can  stop  and  buy  you  a  perfect  gown 
that  I  saw  yesterday " 

And  when  Lilla  had  shaken  her  head,  the  blonde, 
lean  temptress  exclaimed  in  exasperation: 

"I  declare,  you're  no  good  to  anybody  any 
more!" 

A  sleek-looking  man  in  riding  clothes  stepped 
down  into  the  box.  Fanny  Brassfield,  who  had 
been  craning  her  neck  indignantly,  disregarded 
his  outstretched  hand  to  give  his  arm  a  push,  while 
crying  out : 

1  'Go  get  her  for  me,  Jimmy.  Anna  Zanidov. 
There,  with  those  people  in  the  aisle." 

The  Russian  woman  appeared  before  them  in  a 
black  turban  and  a  voluminous  black  cloak.  Her 
flat,  vermilion  lips  were  parted  in  a  social  smile; 
but  her  Tartar  eyes  remained  inscrutable.  Her 
face,  wedge-shaped,  dead  white,  with  its  look  of 
being  made  from  some  material  more  rigid  than 

212 


SACRIFICE 

flesh,  was  as  startling  as  the  countenance  of  an 
Oriental  image,  in  its  frame  of  glossy  black  fur. 
Sitting  down,  she  assumed  that  close-kneed  hier 
atic  attitude  habitual  to  her,  which  made  Lilla  see 
her  once  more  in  the  barbarically  painted  evening 
gown,  amid  superstitious  women  breathless  from 
awe. 

"Do  you  care  for  this  idolatry?"  Madame  Zani- 
dov  asked  Lilla,  in  her  precise  English.  "But 
then  after  all  so  few  are  here  to  worship  the  ani 
mals.  Perhaps  rather  to  be  worshipped,"  she  sug 
gested  pleasantly,  casting  her  glance  over  Lilla 's 
face  and  costume. 

All  around  her,  indeed,  Lilla  could  see  the  pretty 
women  in  their  slate-gray  and  rust-colored  cloaks, 
in  their  rakish  little  toques  from  under  which  their 
sophisticated  eyes  peeped  out  in  search  of  homage. 
Some  had  the  expression  of  those  for  whom  love 
is  an  assured  phenomenon  solving  all  questions. 
Others  seemed  to  be  waiting  impatiently  for  its 
advent  or  its  departure.  But  all,  Lilla  thought, 
looked  assured  either  of  its  persistence  or  its  re 
currence.  Amid  them  she  felt  as  isolate  as  a  ghost. 

The  men  approached  them  with  confident  smiles, 
long  limbed,  with  leisurely  and  supple  movements, 
smart  in  their  heavy  tweeds  or  riding  breeches  that 
suggested  habits  of  strenuous  exertion.  When 
they  removed  their  hats,  one  saw  their  close- 
clipped  heads  bending  forward  confidentially  to 
ward  the  fair  faces :  and  their  eyes  slowly  followed 

213 


SACRIFICE 

the  eyes  of  the  women  who  were  contemplating 
absentmindedly  the  rippling  muscles  of  the  horses 
in  the  arena.  A  band  in  a  balcony  began  to  play 
Strauss 's  Wiener  Mad'l,  the  strains  of  music  muf 
fled  by  the  dust,  the  lights,  the  movement  of  the 
audience,  the  pain  in  Lilla's  breast.  And  the 
vague  savor  of  stables  and  flowers,  the  statuesque 
postures  of  beasts  and  the  expectant  attitudes  of 
human  beings,  were  suddenly  fused  together  into 
one  hallucination — a  flood  of  sensory  impressions 
at  once  unreal  and  too  actual,  in  which  Lilla  found 
herself  sinking  and  smothering. 

Anna  Zanidov  was  looking  at  her  intently. 

"You  do  not  often  come  to  town,  they  tell  me," 
the  Russian  murmured. 

"No,  why  should  If"  Lilla  returned,  as  if  vio 
lently  aroused  from  sleep.  She  saw  beyond  Anna 
Zanidov,  on  the  steps  of  the  box,  a  man  whose 
visage  was  lined  across  the  forehead  and  under 
the  cheekbones,  and  who  showed,  under  his  heavy, 
mouse-colored  mustache,  a  stony,  courteous  smile. 

It  was  the  new  face  of  Cornelius  Rysbroek. 

"No,  sit  here,"  said  the  Russian,  "I  wish  to  talk 
with  Fanny." 

He  seated  himself  beside  Lilla,  and,  after  watch 
ing  a  horse  clear  a  jump,  remarked : 

"Do  you  know  I'm  living  near  you!" 

He  had  taken  a  house  in  Westchester  County, 
five  miles  away  from  hers.  He  had  been  looking 
for  quiet,  because  he  was  writing  a  book  about 

214 


SACRIFICE 

his  journey  in  China — "just  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing." 

"Yesterday,"  he  added  indifferently,  "I  hap 
pened  to  pass  your  gates.  At  least  I  suppose  they 
were.  I  had  a  mind  to  call." 

His  hands,  clasped  round  his  knee,  attracted  her 
unwilling  notice.  They  had  become  sinewy.  He 
appeared  like  a  hard-muscled  elder  brother  of  the 
listless  hypochondriac  who  in  the  old  days  had 
paid  feeble  court  to  her:  and  strangeness  envel 
oped  him,  not  only  because  of  the  changes  in  his 
body  and  character,  but  also  because  of  the  hard 
ships  and  escapes  that  he  had  experienced  in  the 
Chinese  mountains.  Yet  in  this  strangeness  Lilla 
found  a  disturbingly  familiar  quality,  like  an  echo 
of  something  lost,  a  vague  and  diminished  reappa- 
rition  of  an  old  ideal. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly,  "I  wish  we  could  be 
friends  again.  But  the  situation  at  home  is  so 
very  delicate." 

After  a  long  silence,  he  uttered,  so  low  that  she 
could  hardly  hear  him : 

"Are  there  no  other  places?" 

The  band  still  played  Wiener  Mad'L 

"It's  getting  late,"  she  faltered,  wondering 
where  she  was  going  to  find  the  strength  to  rise 
from  her  chair. 

* '  Yes,  go  back  to  your  tomb.  Are  there  any  mir 
rors  in  it?  Do  you  ever  look  in  them?  Do  you 
see  in  them  what's  happening  to  you?  Your  eyes 

215 


SACRIFICE 

are  losing  their  luster;  you're  getting  haggard, 
and  in  a  little  while  one  will  see  the  bones  under 
your  skin.  At  this  moment  you  look  like  the 
devil. ' '  "Without  raising  his  voice,  without  ceasing 
to  stare  as  though  bored  at  the  old  Russian  silver 
box  from  which  he  was  taking  a  cigarette  with 
trembling  fingers,  he  pronounced  malignantly, 
"You  are  losing  your  beauty,  Lilla — all  that  you 
ever  had  to  plunge  a  man  into  hell.  Presently, 
thank  God,  there  will  be  nothing  to  love." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  shouted  the  words 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  that  the  whole  multitude 
must  have  heard  him,  and  must  have  seen  the  look 
that  he  showed  her  for  the  briefest  instant — the 
look  of  a  damned  soul  peering  through  flames  that 
only  she  could  quench. 

At  the  full  impact  of  pity  and  remorse  at  last, 
she  felt  her  spirit  stumbling  toward  his  through 
that  inferno. 

The  promenaders  perceived  a  woman  and  a  man, 
expressionless  though  rather  worn  and  pale,  ex 
changing  apparently  commonplace  words,  while 
staring  down  at  the  horses. 

"I'll  phone  you  to-night " 

"Not  the  phone." 

With  an  indolent  movement  he  thrust  his  shak 
ing  hands  into  his  coat  pockets,  and  tried  again : 

"I'll  drive  over  in  the  morning.  You  might  be 
taking  a  walk " 

Weak  and  sick,  she  glanced  down  at  the  buttons 
216 


SACRIFICE 

of  her  gloves,  before  rising  to  her  feet.  She  Heard 
Anna  Zanidov  saying  to  Fanny  Brassfield,  "Well, 
I've  lost  those  friends  of  mine.  No  matter.  I'll 
find  a  taxi. ' '  Pouncing  upon  this  chance  to  escape, 
for  the  moment,  from  him  and  from  herself,  Lilla 
blurted  out : 

"Let  me  give  you  a  lift.  Come  on." 
Cornelius  Eysbroek  saw  her  lovely  head  turn 
ing  away  from  him,  the  swirl  of  her  cloak  as  she 
ascended  the  steps,  the  flash  of  her  tapering  boot 
heel.  He  then  stood  looking  round  him  through 
his  ironical,  weary  mask,  one  hand  on  the  back  of 
a  chair,  however,  as  if  without  that  support  hia 
quaking  legs  might  let  him  fall  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTEK  XLH 

THE  limousine  glided  northward.  A  cold  rain 
was  falling.  Behind  the  glistening  windowpanes 
the  scene  was  continually  melting  from  one  black 
ness  into  another.  At  each  flash  of  radiance 
Madame  Zanidov  was  revealed  motionless  in  her 
corner,  muffled  in  her  cloak,  with  closed  eyes. 

"Is  she  reading  my  thoughts ?"  Lilla  wondered. 

No  matter:  by  this  time  the  whole  world  must 
know  them,  released  as  they  had  been,  into  that 
eager  public  air,  like  a  deafening  cry  of  confes 
sion.  "What's  to  be  the  end  of  this?"  she  asked 
herself,  appalled,  as  she  felt  her  life  being  whirled 
along  from  one  fatal  impulse  to  another,  just  as 
she  was  being  whisked  by  the  limousine  from  dark 
ness  to  darkness.  To  check  that  inexorable  prog 
ress  !  to  see  some  constant  light ! 

Anna  Zanidov  turned  her  wedge-shaped  face  to 
ward  Lilla,  with  the  words : 

"I  have  thought  of  you  many  times." 

"I  can  say  the  same." 

"To  be  sure,"  the  Russian  declared,  "I  have 
stopped  doing  that,  you  know.  I  didn't  want  to 
end  by  being  shunned." 

218 


SACRIFICE 

"I  suppose  you  still  have  the  gift?" 

"No  doubt." 

The  limousine  halted.  Across  its  path  rumbled 
a  street  car  mistily  bright  behind  the  rain,  crowded 
with  people  who  represented  a  rational  humanity 
aloof  from  the  little  compartment  in  which  were 
shut  up  these  two  victims  of  remarkable  beliefs. 
Then,  the  limousine  moving  on,  the  blurred  phan 
tasmagoria  closed  in  again: — and  the  northern 
vista  took  on  the  ambiguity  of  Lilians  life,  a  com 
pound  of  darknesses  and  deceptive  gleams, 
stretching  away  toward  what?  She  uttered: 

"Nevertheless,  to  know  the  future!"  And  as 
the  Russian  remained  mute  and  motionless,  she 
faltered,  "No  matter  what  one  learned,  the  sus 
pense  would  be  over." 

"Would  it,  indeed!" 

"I  am  desperate,"  Lilla  responded  in  low  tones. 

After  a  while  Madame  Zanidov,  with  a  compas 
sionate  austerity,  responded: 

"Remember,  then,  that  it  is  you  who  wished 
this." 

Their  hands  touched.  In  the  rushing  limousine, 
in  this  fluidity  of  lights  and  darkness,  they  were 
intent  on  the  phenomenon  that  both  believed  to  be 
a  revelation  of  fate.  At  last  the  clairvoyant 
quietly  began: 

"I  am  out  of  doors,  far  away." 

The  glare  of  passing  headlights  displayed  her 
closed,  oblique  eyes,  her  parted,  flat  lips,  her  idol- 

219 


SACRIFICE 

like  aspect,  which  bestowed  on  her  the  impres- 
siveness,  the  seeming  infallibility,  of  those  oracles 
that  were  anciently  supposed  to  describe  some 
future  mood  of  the  chaotic  ebb  and  surge  that 
human  beings  call  life. 

"Very  old  tree  trunks.  Great  trailing  vines. 
Huge  flowers  black  in  the  moonlight.  It  is  the 
very  same  place.  Here  is  that  clearing,  and  the 
squatting  black  men.  Their  hands  are  folded; 
their  heads  are  bowed  forward ;  they  are  filled  with 
sadness.  Near  them,  on  the  ground,  lies  the  dead 
man  whose  body  is  covered  with  a  cloth.  It  is  the 
man  who  has  loved  you."  She  dropped  Lilla's 
hand,  protesting,  "This  is  incredible!" 

"Incredible?" 

"Yes,  because  this  scene  appears  to  be  still  in 
the  future.  Do  you  understand  me?  Hasn't  hap 
pened  yet." 

The  limousine  stopped  before  the  Russian's 
door  as  Lilla,  disgusted  by  this  anticlimax,  re 
plied  : 

"You've  repeated  your  old  prophecy  because  it 
has  haunted  my  mind  ever  since  you  made  it  that 
night  at  the  Brassfields '.  You've  merely  gotten 
back  from  me  the  impression  that  you  stamped  on 
my  consciousness  then." 

"Then  that  is  something  new.  These  percep 
tions  of  mine  have  never  referred  to  the  past.  Be 
sides,  I  had  just  now — but  how  shall  I  explain  it  ? 
— a  powerful  sense  of  the  future.  Ah,  well,  maybe 

220 


SACRIFICE 

this  gift  of  mine  is  leaving  me,  since  I've  refused 
to  use  it.  I  sha'n't  be  sorry."  As  she  got  out 
of  the  car,  she  amended,  "At  least,  I  don't  think 
I'm  sorry  to  have  disappointed  you." 

The  door  snapped  shut  on  that  hope :  the  world 
became  fluid  again :  and  Lilla  was  borne  away  to 
ward  another  pity  and  another  remorse. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

HAMOUD  opened  the  front  door,  and  told  her : 

"They  are  waiting  for  you." 

"They?    Who  is  here?" 

"Mr.  Brantome." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  staring  balefully  at  the 
stone  knight  above  the  fireplace  of  the  hall,  who 
still  raised  his  sightless  face,  and  brandished  his 
blunt  sword,  with  that  stupid  appearance  of  de 
fying  everything.  Then  she  tossed  aside  her  cloak 
and  hat,  and  went  straight  into  the  living  room, 
peeling  off  her  gloves,  saying  in  a  gracious  voice : 

"Hello!  How  nice!  But  how  foolish  to  wait 
for  me.  You  must  both  be  starved." 

"No,  but  David  has  been  imagining  all  sorts  of 
calamities,"  Brantome  returned,  with  a  loud,  ar 
tificial  laugh,  and  a  look  of  anxiety  in  the  depths 
of  his  old  eyes.  As  for  the  invalid,  silent  in  his 
wheel  chair  before  the  Flemish  tapestry,  he  showed 
her  a  frozen  smile,  a  travesty  of  approval. 

They  went  in  to  dinner.  As  soon  as  they  had  sat 
down  she  began,  with  an  unnatural  vivacity,  to  tell 
them  where  she  had  been.  That  horse  show!  It 
had  never  seemed  so  silly  to  her.  The  same  old 

222 


SACRIFICE 

stable  slang  interspersed  with  the  same  old  scan 
dal.  And  to-night  Fanny  Brassfield,  instead  of 
falling  upon  her  bed  in  a  stupor  of  futility,  was 
going  to  give  a  big  dinner  for  the  very  same  peo 
ple.  "I'm  surprised,"  she  exclaimed,  turning  her 
flushed  face  toward  Brantome,  "that  you  weren't 
dragged  into  it.  They  usually  sacrifice  a  captive 
from  the  land  of  art. ' ' 

David  remained  quite  still,  his  frail  shoulders 
bowed  forward,  his  head  advanced,  his  eyes  in 
tently  watching  her  moving  lips.  She  could  not 
abate  that  frozen  smile  of  his.  Brantome,  his 
portly  body  thrown  back,  his  white  mane  and  long 
mustaches  shimmering  like  spun  glass  in  the  can 
dle  light,  seemed  still  to  wear  on  his  tragical  old 
face  a  look  of  uneasiness.  She  had  the  feeling  of 
sitting  before  two  judges  who  were  weighing  not 
only  her  words,  but  her  tone  of  voice  and  appear 
ance.  She  wondered  what  appearance  she  pre 
sented. 

"Why  don't  you  eat  your  dinner?"  she  asked 
David. 

"I  am  interested,"  he  replied  rather  hoarsely. 

"At  what?  I  was  wondering  what  right  I  had 
to  inflict  all  this  on  you.  I  suppose  when  I  came 
in  you  were  talking  of  something  worth  while." 
She  turned  again  to  Brantome,  "And  Marco 
Polo?" 

"The  best  tone  poem  since  Don  Quixote,"  he 
223 


SACRIFICE 

said,  rising  and  making  her  a  bow.  "As  far  as  it 
has  gone.  It  is  not  finished  yet." 

* '  It  soon  will  be.    Won 't  it,  David  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  another  month  with  luck,"  he  returned 
lightly,  trying  to  lift  a  wineglass,  and  spilling  on 
the  cloth  the  champagne  that  had  been  prescribed 
by  Dr.  Fallows. 

She  caught  his  wrist.  A  pang  passed  through 
her  heart.  She  showed  them  a  new  expression, 
or  else  an  old  one  for  which  they  had  been  hoping, 
as  she  exclaimed  in  alarm: 

"You're  not  so  well  to-night!" 

And,  as  Hamoud  was  wheeling  David  into  the 
living  room,  she  protested  to  Brantome : 

"I  can't  leave  him  for  a  day  without  something 
happening." 

"Then  for  God's  sake  don't,  at  least  till  this 
piece  is  done."  The  old  Frenchman  pulled  her 
back,  and  whispered,  "Why,  this  afternoon  he  was 
nearly  beside  himself.  How  can  he  work " 

"About  what?"  she  ejaculated,  glancing  down 
at  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

"How  should  I  know,  if  you  don't?" 

In  the  living  room  Brantome  did  not  sit  down. 
Flushed  from  the  wine  that  he  had  drunk,  striding 
to  and  fro,  he  began  a  rigmarole  about  "David's 
future."  His  voice  was  nearly  ferocious  when  he 
prophesied  the  subjugation  of  the  public,  which 
might  be  aroused,  by  precisely  the  right  persua 
sion,  to  a  tumult  of  applause.  Yes,  they  must  all 

224 


SACRIFICE 

be  conquered,  until,  as  in  the  case  of  Beethoven 
for  instance,  the  name  of  the  genius  appeared  as 
though  written  like  a  portent  in  the  sky,  above  the 
heads  even  of  throngs  that  knew  nothing  of  music, 
that  would  never  hear  these  harmonies,  but  that 
would  be  filled  all  the  same  with  reverential  awe. 

He  had  never  before  revealed  this  thirst  for  un- 
discriminating  homage.  They  hardly  recognized 
him.  The  old  leonine  fellow  was  transfigured,  as 
though  by  megalomania.  He  seemed  larger,  and 
slowly  made  the  gestures  of  an  emperor. 

He  darted  into  the  study,  as  Lilla  said  to  David : 

"The  piece  will  stand  up  for  itself,  I  think. 
He's  becoming  almost  too  ridiculous." 

But  in  the  other  room  Brantome  began  beating 
out  fragments  of  Marco  Polo.  The  familiar 
sounds  took  on  a  startling  majesty  in  the  atmos 
phere  heavily  charged  with  the  player's  exulta 
tion.  One  had  an  illusion  that  this  music  was 
irradiating  from  the  house  all  over  the  earth. 
Then,  in  the  silence,  the  rustle  of  the  rain  seemed 
a  long  murmur  of  enthusiastic  comment. 

Abruptly  Brantome  reappeared  in  the  doorway 
with  his  mane  disheveled,  like  a  lion  let  out  of  a 
cage ;  but  Lilla  was  too  wretched  to  laugh  at  him. 
Now  he  was  bursting  with  memories  of  those,  since 
great,  with  whom  he  had  chummed  in  his  youth, 
when  he,  too,  had  expected  to  be  great.  He  swept 
his  listeners  away  to  foreign  studios,  where  they 
saw  young  men  poising  for  flights  amid  the  stars. 

225 


SACRIFICE 

"And  here,"  he  affirmed,  whirling  round  to 
Lilla,  "is  something  better,  in  humor,  in  tragedy, 
in  dignity,  in  richness  of  invention,  in  everything. " 

"I  know  it,"  she  responded,  reaching  out  to 
lay  her  hand  upon  David's  hand. 

"Something  better,"  he  repeated,  in  a  changed 
voice,  with  an  effect  of  shrinking  to  his  usual  pro 
portions.  His  arm  fell  to  his  side,  and  he  turned 
away  to  hide  his  altered  look.  "I'll  fight  for  this 
boy,"  he  said.  "I'll  fight  the  whole  world  for 
him." 

"You  looked,"  suggested  Lilla  gently,  "as  if 
you  were  going  to  fight  me,  too." 

"You?  No,  you  are  my  ally.  Or,  if  you  please, 
I  am  yours;  for  neither  of  us  can  do  anything 
without  you." 

At  midnight,  when  Lilla  returned  to  the  door 
way  of  his  bedroom,  David  was  not  asleep. 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  A  beam 
of  light  from  the  corridor  touched  her  slender 
figure  wrapped  in  yellow  silk,  and  her  braided  hair 
outlined,  round  her  head,  by  a  narrow  golden  halo. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  breeze  from  the  win 
dow  was  laden  with  the  odor  of  the  saturated 
earth.  Falteringly  he  asked  her  if  she  was  chilly. 

She  was  surprised,  having  been  aware  for  a  long 
while  only  of  this  pity  and  this  remorse. 

"You  have  suffered  to-day,"  she  said. 

He  responded: 

226 


SACRIFICE 

"The  penalty  one  pays  for  having  acquired 
great  riches  is  the  fear  of  losing  them." 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  then  murmured : 

"When  this  piece  is  finished,  or  to-morrow  if 
you  like,  we  might  go  abroad  ?  Over  there  we  could 
find  any  number  of  nice,  secluded  places.  Some 
Greek  island  might  please  you?  The  climate  is 
very  invigorating." 

"Would  you  like  it?" 

"If  it  would  make  you  happier." 

He  uttered  a  groan: 

"How  I  torment  you !  It  must  be  some  devil  in 
me  that  prompts  me  to  this  ingratitude.  All  that 
you've  done  for  me,  and  I'm  not  satisfied.  You 
are  perfection/* 

She  laughed  dismally,  raising  her  face  in  the 
gloom  of  the  bed  canopy  that  enshrouded  them  like 
the  shadows  of  a  catafalque.  Perfection !  A  pit 
iable  heroine,  an  unstable  creature  tossed  about 
from  one  compassion  to  another,  from  a  contemp 
tible  dissatisfaction  here  to  a  half-hypocritical 
idea  of  reparation  there,  and  now  to  self-abase 
ment  !  She  was  sick  from  disgust  at  her  ingrati 
tude  to  this  poor  invalid,  through  whom  she  had 
become  majestic,  holding  fate  back  so  that  beauty, 
and  even  life,  might  miraculously  survive.  She 
seemed  to  have  emerged  from  an  ignoble  dream; 
she  longed  to  merit  again,  at  least  in  her  devotion 
to  this  supine  figure,  that  word,  perfection.  Sud 
denly  her  bosom  swelled  not  only  with  compunc- 

227 


SACRIFICE 

tion,  but  with  love  also — since  it  was  she,  indeed, 
who  had  recreated  him,  and  since  without  the  nour 
ishment  of  her  daily  reassurances  he  must  die. 

*  'Help  me  to  deserve  those  words, ' '  she  besought 
him,  bending  down  through  the  shadows.  Her 
tears  moistened  his  lips,  and  upon  that  revelation 
he  stammered: 

"At  this  moment  I  feel  that  you're  mine." 
"Not  only  this  moment.    Always. " 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

IN  the  morning,  when  Brantome  had  departed 
for  the  city,  Lilla  said  to  Hamoud: 

* '  Please  tell  the  servants  that  if  any  one  should 
ask  for  me  I'm  not  at  home." 

Soon  afterward,  while  David  was  at  work  shut 
up  in  the  study,  and  Lilla  was  trying  to  read  a 
book  in  the  living  room,  the  doorbell  rang.  When 
she  heard  Hamoud,  in  the  hall,  speaking  quickly 
in  Arabic,  her  body  relaxed.  She  thought : 

"He  has  found  one  of  his  own  people.  I  am 
glad.  He  must  have  been  so  lonely  all  this  while ! ' ' 

She  heard  another  voice,  deeper  and  more  vi 
brant.  "Yes,  Arabic,"  she  said,  smiling  content 
edly.  Of  a  sudden,  for  some  inexplicable  reason, 
she  felt  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint. 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  book,  and  saw  a 
tall  man  with  a  black  beard,  standing  in  the  hall 
doorway,  watching  her. 

She  was  seized  with  the  paralyzing  chill  that 
comes  to  those  who  seem  to  be  confronted  by  ap 
paritions  of  the  dead.  Her  conviction  that  she 
saw  no  living  man  was  strengthened  by  his  physi 
cal  alteration.  His  black  beard,  which  covered 

229 


SACRIFICE 

even  his  cheekbones,  masked  a  shriveled  counte 
nance.  His  eyes  had  receded  into  their  sockets; 
his  lips  were  stretched  over  his  teeth;  and  the 
swarthiness  of  his  skin  had  become  sulphurous. 
The  stillness  of  his  attitude,  and  his  blank,  atten 
tive  look,  completed  the  effect  of  unreality. 

Then  she  thought,  "Perhaps  it's  I  who  am 
dead. ' '  Her  surroundings  melted  away.  All  her 
obligations  related  to  these  surroundings  melted 
also.  She  began  to  float  toward  him,  over  the  floor 
that  she  no  longer  felt  beneath  her  feet,  so  that 
her  disembodied  spirit  might  be  merged  with  this 
other  spirit.  Her  half-raised  hands  prepared  to 
cling  to  him — as  though  one  phantom  could  cling 
fast  to  another!  But  abruptly  an  invisible  force 
seemed  to  check  her  progress  mid-way;  and  she 
stood  before  him  with  her  arms,  that  had  meant 
to  embrace  him,  lifted  in  what  appeared  to  be  a 
gesture  of  horrified  denial. 

There  was  no  change  in  his  face  disfigured  by 
unhappiness  and  illness. 

The  air  round  them  began  to  tremble  with 
strains  of  music — harmonies  mounting  up  toward 
a  climax  of  intolerable  beauty.  It  came,  this  per 
fect  epitome  of  love,  from  behind  the  closed  doors 
of  the  study,  where  David  Verne  was  playing  as 
never  before. 

"Lffla!" 

A  profound  silence  followed  the  call  that  neither 
of  these  two  had  uttered.  And  from  behind  the 

230 


SACRIFICE 

closed  doors,  David,  transported  by  his  exulta 
tion,  cried  out  again  to  the  Muse : 

"Lilla!    Lilla!" 

Swaying  aside,  she  sank  down  into  a  chair. 
"Oh,"  she  breathed,  looking  at  the  rug  as  though 
some  very  precious  object  had  slipped  from  her 
hands  and  broken  at  her  feet.  As  she  sat  there,  a 
huddle  of  coffee-colored  fabric  and  pallid  flesh, 
the  sunlight  burst  through  the  clouds  to  smite  her 
all  over  with  its  glory,  igniting  her  hair,  turning 
her  face  into  incandescent  gold. 

Lawrence  Teck  watched  this  transformation. 

He  became  natural — ready  to  fight  for  this 
woman,  though  still  believing  that  he  despised 
everything  about  her  except  her  loveliness.  All 
at  once  he  was  like  a  man  who  stands  on  the  edge 
of  a  chasm,  who  has  an  idea  that  he  may  be  able 
to  leap  across,  from  a  bitterness  endured  alone  to 
a  bitterness  shared  with  another.  He  took  the 
leap.  He  put  her  to  the  test. 

She  saw  him  walking  across  the  living  room  to 
ward  the  closed  doors  of  the  study. 

Noiselessly,  as  swift  as  her  dreadful  thought, 
she  rose,  traversed  the  room,  passed  him,  and 
whirled  round  against  the  door.  She  flung  out 
her  arms  in  a  movement  that  nailed  her  against 
the  panels  as  to  a  cross.  She  could  not  speak ;  but 
he  read  on  her  lips,  as  if  she  had  cried  it  in  his 
face: 

"No!" 

231 


SACRIFICE 

The  music  began  again,  at  first  soft  and  simply 
melodious,  soon  complex  and  thunderous.  The 
door  at  her  back  vibrated  from  the  sound,  and  the 
quivering  penetrated  her  body  and  her  brain.  She 
was  filled  with  a  new  horror,  at  the  new,  miracu 
lous  strength  evinced  in  that  playing. 

And  again  that  voice  exulting  in  the  study : 
s   "Lilla?    Oh,  where  are  you?" 

"Come  away  from  here,"  she  muttered,  giving 
Lawrence  an  awful  stare,  snatching  at  his  sleeve, 
dragging  him  after  her  across  the  room,  her  feet 
as  heavy  as  if  fleeing  through  a  nightmare.  Now, 
straining  at  his  arm,  she  was  in  the  wainscotted 
hall  before  the  stone  mantelpiece  that  bore  up  the 
defiant  knight.  Now  she  reached  the  fernery. 
The  palms  leaped  back  into  place  behind  them  as 
she  collapsed  upon  the  red  cushions  of  the  settee. 

He  stood  watching  her  as  before,  erect,  breath 
ing,  alive,  even  though  he  lay  smashed  in  the 
depths  of  that  chasm  which  she  had  prevented  him 
from  clearing. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

your  idea  is,"  Lawrence  inquired  calmly, 
"that  he  mustn't  know  at  all?"  She  continued  to 
weep  in  silence,  the  tears  running  quickly  down  her 
cheeks  and  falling  like  brilliants  upon  the  fur  edg 
ing  of  her  house  gown.  He  added,  "I  merely 
mean,  is  it  practicable?" 

Incoherently  she  started  to  tell  the  whole  story 
over  again. 

"But  how  can  I  make  you  understand?  My 
wits  are  gone.  He  was  utterly  helpless,  done  for, 
you  might  as  well  say  dead.  All  the  life  blazing 
and  throbbing  round  him — and  round  me,  too ;  for 
I  was  as  good  as  dead  also.  Two  dead  people 
meeting  and  trying  to  find  their  way  back,  through 
each  other,  to  some  sort  of  life.  But  he  didn't 
know  that  he  was  helping  me ;  that  is  my  secret. 
Yet  it  wasn't  all  selfishness  with  me.  In  the  end 
I  was  persuaded  just  by  pity.  Have  you  seen  a 
sick  animal  looking  at  you  pleadingly?  Pity  is  a 
monster!  First  one  tentacle,  then  another,  and 
finally  one  is  pulled  under  and  devoured.  One 
should  never  feel  pity.  But  you  were  gone." 

She  pressed  her  fingers  to  her  temples,  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

233 


SACRIFICE 

"Don't  you  know  this  will  kill  him?"  she  asked. 
"But  how  could  you  know  that?  It's  so,  all  the 
same.  It's  just  I  who  have  kept  him  alive.  It's 
just  by  holding  on  to  me  that  he's  held  on  to  life." 

She  gave  a  cry: 

"Ah!   This  is  too  much!   What  am  I  to  do !" 

She  writhed  amid  the  red  cushions  of  the  settee 
till  he  commanded  sternly : 

"Calm  yourself.  It's  time  we  began  to  talk 
sensibly." 

She  sat  still,  looking  at  him  in  terror. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

His  erect  immobility,  his  emotional  self-contain 
ment,  recalled  to  her,  by  contrast,  the  feebleness 
and  helplessness  that  had  lured  her  into  this  trap. 
Once  more  she  perceived  in  this  man  the  refuge 
that  her  frailty  of  nerves  and  tissues  had  always 
yearned  for ;  and  the  miracle  that  she  had  accom 
plished  in  his  absence  became  the  work  of  a 
stranger.  Ah,  to  let  go  of  heroism  now,  to  be  once 
more  her  true  self — the  fragile  complement  of 
this  strength !  But  in  the  very  moment  when  she 
visualized  the  consummation  of  that  wish,  she  saw 
with  her  mind's  eye  the  other  sitting  at  the  piano 
in  his  wheel  chair,  his  music  strewn  round  him, 
the  air  still  vibrant  with  triumph  and  gratitude, 
his  face  turned  eagerly  toward  the  door  as  toward 
the  source  of  an  infallible  reassurance,  of  beauti 
ful  accomplishment,  of  life  itself. 

The  palms,  forming  an  arch  above  him,  cast  a 
234 


SACRIFICE 

greenish  shadow  over  Lawrence  's  bearded  visage, 
which  was  shrunken  and  yellow  from  the  last  at 
tack  of  fever,  in  the  coast  town.  This  head  of  his, 
hovering  before  her  in  a  frame  of  ragged  greenery, 
seemed  about  to  melt  away  amid  one  of  her  old 
illusions  of  the  jungle.  Gradually  she  understood 
that  this  was  not  he  whom  she  had  married  on  that 
night  of  romance. 

All  those  thoughts  of  his  were  what  had  changed 
his  face  into  this  new  appearance,  hard  and  mis 
understanding,  incredulous  and  ironical,  and 
crushed  with  an  utter  weariness  of  spirit.  And 
Lilla  did  not  know  how  to  summon  back  into  being 
the  man  that  he  had  been ;  for  all  her  inspiration 
was  dragged  down  by  guilt.  She  remembered  the 
dusty  rooms  where  even  her  last  tribute  of  flowers 
had  now  turned  to  dust.  She  recalled  the  victori 
ous  seductiveness  of  genius,  of  egotism,  the  lure 
of  a  world  in  which  a  myriad  women  had  seemed 
to  be  dancing  away  from  her  toward  happiness; 
and  then,  her  moment  of  complex  treason  at  the 
horse  show.  She  quailed  as  she  heard  again  her 
vow  to  Lawrence  on  their  wedding  night,  "For 
ever!"  and  that  word  was  blended  with  the  "For 
ever!"  which,  a  few  hours  ago,  she  had  uttered  in 
the  gloom  of  David's  bedroom. 

He  felt  her  sense  of  guilt,  and  misinterpreted  it. 
When  her  protestations  became  more  intimate,  a 
smile,  half  contemptuous  and  half  commiserating, 

235 


SACRIFICE 

appeared  on  his  shrunken  lips.  It  struck  her  si 
lent. 

"As  I  understand  it,"  said  Lawrence  Teck, 
"this  is  your  plan,  which  seems  to  me,  in  the  light 
of  common  sense,  perfectly  hopeless.  In  short, 
he's  not  to  know.  You've  refused  to  let  me  face 
him " 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  sighed,  and  quoted,  "  'Infirm  of 
purpose,  give  me  the  daggers. '  You'd  kill  him  for 
me,  wouldn't  you?" 

"You  exaggerate.  If  he  were  as  delicately 
poised  as  that,  I  shouldn't  want  his  death  on  my 
hands.  These  people  who  kill  one  another,  and 
even  themselves,  for  love,  exist  of  course ;  but  to 
me  they're  ridiculous.  The  game  isn't  worth  it. 
There  are  too  many  other  things  in  life.  As  for 
me,  my  work,  that  part  of  it  out  there  unfinished, 
dropped  so  that  I  could  run  back  here  and  clear 
this  matter  up " 

"No,  I'm  the  one  that  you're  killing,"  she  re 
turned,  bowing  her  head  that  was  glorified  in  the 
sunshine  pouring  round  her,  as  if  with  a  crown  of 
celestial  happiness. 

He  went  on  in  a  deliberate,  grave  tone,  feeling 
logical  and  dizzy,  replete  with  self-justification, 
magnanimity,  and  horror : 

"I  managed  to  arrive  in  this  country  secretly. 
There  are  only  three  persons  in  New  York  who 
know  that  I'm  here,  or,  for  that  matter,  alive.  It 
may  help  a  little  if  I  succeed  in  slipping  away  as 

236 


SACRIFICE 

quietly  as  I  came.  You  can  get  your  divorce  on 
grounds  of  desertion.  I'm  sorry  enough  to  have 
let  you  in  for  this.  It's  my  fault  from  beginning 
to  end.  I  shouldn't  have  appeared  then,  and  worst 
of  all  I  shouldn  't  have  reappeared  now. ' '  He  hesi 
tated  ;  then,  glancing  toward  the  door  of  the  fern 
ery,  "No  doubt  you'll  discover  how  to  smooth  it 
out  with  him.  After  all,  if  he  were  the  most  sensi 
tive  creature  on  earth,  he  ought  to  be  satisfied 
when  he  understands  that  though  I've  popped  up 
alive  he  is  the  one  you've  chosen." 

"You  are  mad,"  she  gasped,  giving  a  convulsive 
bound  amid  the  red  cushions. 

He  wondered  if  it  were  so. 

Here  she  was  before  his  eyes,  more  beautiful 
than  in  any  of  his  dreams,  a  diffuse  vision  com 
pressed  once  more  into  a  tangible  form,  fragrant 
and  warm,  full  of  coursing  blood  and  tremors,  no 
doubt  still  capable  of  those  same  ecstatic  appear 
ances  and  vocal  rhapsodies.  All  his  swarming, 
jealous  thoughts  were  consuming  him,  as  warrior 
ants  might  consume  some  wretched  victim  of  King 
Muene-Motapa.  He  felt  that  this  deliberate  farce 
must  end,  that  he  must  spring  through  the  door, 
find  the  other,  kill  him  with  one  blow,  and  then 
rush  away  from  this  woman  who,  like  a  fallen 
deity,  lay  weeping  again,  her  face  between  her 
arms,  somehow  pathetic  under  this  retribution  for 
the  inconstancy  that  she  pretended  was  pity. 

She  raised  her  face,  and  pronounced: 
237 


SACRIFICE 

" There  must  be  some  way.  But  I  can't  think 
any  more." 

* '  There  are  two  ways.  One  is  for  me  to  go.  The 
other  is  to  tell  him." 

She  sat  up  and  clutched  the  cushions  on  each 
side  of  her. 

"  You  ask  me  to  go  into  that  room,  and  you  might 
as  well  say  shoot  him  through  the  heart?" 

He  said  to  himself,  "How  she  sticks  to  it!  This 
pretense  is  all  she  has  to  cling  to,  poor  thing,  in 
lieu  of  saying  straight  out,  'I  can't  return  to  that 
old  adventure  now.  Too  much  time  has  inter 
vened;  I'm  no  longer  the  same  woman.  I  must 
stick  to  this  new  romance.'  "  He  said  to  himself, 
"I  shall  get  away  from  here  this  moment."  He 
turned  toward  the  doorway. 

"Bemember,"  he  told  her  wearily,  "I'm  depend 
ing  on  your  silence." 

Struck  by  the  folly  of  that  caution,  he  hurried 
into  the  hall,  as  though  to  escape  an  outburst  of 
laughter. 

He  was  close  to  the  front  door  when  she  ap 
peared  in  his  path,  materialized  from  thin  air. 

"Wait  outside.    I'll  go  with  you." 

She  stood  tearing  her  handkerchief  to  pieces, 
looking  at  him  strangely  out  of  her  swollen  eyes, 
her  cheeks  flushed.  She  went  on: 

"Why,  we  must  talk.  We  can  surely  find  the 
way  out.  But  not  here.  At  the  rooms."  A  film 
passed  over  her  eyes.  She  caught  him  fast  round 

238 


SACRIFICE 

the  neck,  raised  her  lips  toward  his,  and  whis 
pered,  with  a  distracted  appearance  that  seemed 
guilty  as  well  as  passionate,  "You  still  love  me? 
As  much  as  ever?" 

He  felt  that  he  and  she  had  reached  the  depths. 
This  temptation  capping  the  climax  of  her  rejec 
tion — this  monstrous  inversion  of  the  classic  tri 
angle!  "What  is  she,  then?"  he  asked  himself, 
"and  what  am  I?"  For  he  caught  hold  of  her  as 
if  he  were  going  to  crush  her  doubly  perfidious, 
inexplicable  heart,  and  fastened  his  lips  to  hers 
in  a  kiss  that  burned  her  up,  before  he  thrust  her 
from  him  with  a  gesture  meant  to  express  all  his 
loathing  of  her,  of  himself,  of  the  whole  of  life. 

"Oh,  wait!"  she  cried,  as  he  fumbled  with  the 
door. 

To  hold  her  off  with  the  first  words  that  came 
into  his  head,  he  cast  at  her: 

"To-morrow!" 

She  remained  facing  the  closed  door,  softly  re 
peating  : 

"To-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

CORNELIUS  RYSBROEK  had  just  driven  up  before 
the  house  in  a  blue  runabout.  Now,  sunk  down 
behind  the  steering  wheel,  he  gaped  at  the  black- 
bearded  man  who  stood  like  a  rock  at  the  foot  of 
a  low  flight  of  steps. 

Lawrence  Teck  put  on  his  hat,  gave  Cornelius 
Rysbroek  a  blind  stare,  climbed  into  a  hired  car. 
In  doing  so  he  showed  his  aquiline  profile;  and 
Cornelius  recalled  the  moonlit  terrace  of  the 
Brassfields'  country  house. 

"It's  he!" 

The  hired  car  set  out  for  New  York;  and  be 
hind  it,  all  the  way,  went  the  blue  runabout. 


240 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

SHE  entered  her  sitting  room,  locked  the  door, 
threw  herself  upon  the  couch.  Round  lunch  time 
there  came  a  creaking  in  the  corridor,  a  knock. 
It  was  David  in  his  wheel  chair,  propelled  by 
Hamoud. 

"No  lunch.  And  perhaps  no  dinner.  It's  only 
a  headache,  dear.  I  shall  be  all  right." 

"Your  voice  sounds " 

"Why  not,  since  I'm  suffering  a  little?" 

The  creaking  sound  died  away. 

At  the  first  glimmer  of  dawn  she  was  up.  An 
hour  later  she  entered  David's  bedroom,  dressed, 
hatted,  and  gloved.  Her  skin  appeared  transluc 
ent.  Her  hands,  drawing  her  cloak  round  her 
shivering  body,  seemed  almost  too  weak  for  that 
task. 

"Why,  where  are  you  going?" 

1  *  To  town.    It  seems  that  Parr  has  fallen  ill. ' ' 

She  leaned  over  him  quickly,  thinking  of  all  the 
kisses  of  betrayal  that  had  ever  been  bestowed 
upon  the  unaware.  She  went  out  leaving  him  dum- 
founded  by  her  appearance  of  feverish  eagerness, 
energy,  and  illness. 

241 


SACRIFICE 

On  the  ride  to  New  York  she  lay  back  in  the  cor 
ner  of  the  limousine,  her  face  burning,  her  lips 
pressed  together.  "He  thinks  I  don't  love  him,  it 
seems!"  That  was  the  tender  menace  she  hurled 
ahead  of  her,  as  the  car  carried  her  swiftly — yet 
how  slowly! — toward  his  rooms. 

She  remembered  Anna  Zanidov. 

"The  infallible  clairvoyant!  All  that  solemn 
nonsense !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  Ha,  ha,  ha ! " 

She  found  herself  at  the  door  of  his  rooms,  ring 
ing,  knocking,  calling  his  name  through  the  panels. 
She  recollected  that  she  had  the  key  in  her  purse. 
The  door  swung  back  with  a  bang,  and  she  ran 
through  the  shaded  apartment  that  was  filled  with 
the  dull  gleaming  of  weapons.  She  stopped  be 
fore  the  bed  that  had  not  been  slept  in.  She  re 
turned  to  the  living  room,  and  gazed  at  the  with 
ered  petals  lying  round  the  gourd. 

The  doorway  framed  an  undersized,  obese  old 
man  who  wore  a  skullcap  of  black  silesia.  He  was 
the  janitor. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Teck?" 

"Mr.  Teck!"  the  janitor  exclaimed  in  a  shocked 
voice. 

The  words  tumbled  out  of  her  mouth: 

"He  was  here  yesterday,  surely.  Didn't  he 
leave  any  word?" 

"Mr.  Lawrence  Teck?"  the  old  fellow  repeated, 
in  consternation. 

Behind  him  hesitated,  in  passing  by,  a  young 
242 


SACRIFICE 

man  with  an  inquisitive  face,  who  had  under  his 
arm  a  leather  portfolio.  She  slammed  the  door 
on  them.  In  the  shadowy  room  the  very  walls 
seemed  to  be  crumbling. 

She  searched  everywhere  for  a  note,  for  some 
sign  that  he  had  been  here ;  but  there  was  no  ob 
ject  in  the  place  not  covered  with  dust. 

Then,  sunk  in  a  stupor,  she  drove  to  the  little 
house  in  Greenwich  Village.  Her  ring  was  an 
swered  by  Parr 's  niece,  the  woman  with  the  sleek 
bandeaux.  Mr.  Teck  had  been  here  twice,  the  sec 
ond  time  late  last  night.  On  that  occasion  he  had 
taken  Parr  away  with  him. 

"Whereto?" 

"Ah,  ma'am,  if  only  I  knew!" 

Those  faded,  medieval  eyes  gazed  at  the  bene 
factress  in  a  sudden  understanding  and  intimacy ; 
and  Lilla  thought,  "You,  too,  perhaps  in  some 
region  far  removed  from  your  pots  and  pans,  have 
had  such  a  moment  as  this ! ' '  And  she  would  have 
liked  to  let  her  face  fall  forward  upon  the  bosom 
of  that  threadbare  working  dress,  feel  those  toil- 
worn  arms  close  round  her,  and  utter  the  plea, 
"Tell  me  how  to  bear  such  things,  to  survive,  to 
emerge  into  that  strange  serenity  of  yours. ' r 

She  drove  to  Brantome's.  The  whole  world 
was  now  tumbling  down  about  her  ears. 

Brantome  rose  from  his  desk,  where  perhaps  he 
had  been  sketching  out  some  brilliant  appreciation 
of  Marco  Polo.  After  one  glance  at  Lilla : 

243 


SACRIFICE 

"What's  happened?" 

She  showed  him  a  look  of  hatred  that  embraced 
the  whole  room;  for  it  was  not  only  he,  but  also 
this  abode  of  his,  that  had  entrapped  her.  In  ac 
cents  that  lashed  him  like  whips  she  told  him 
everything. 

The  old  Frenchman  sat  down  with  a  thump,  and 
let  his  ruined  face  droop  forward.  She  heard  the 
hoarse  rumble: 

"What  shall  I  do  now?" 

"Find  him!" 

She  returned  to  the  house  in  the  country. 

In  the  middle  of  the  third  night,  the  telephone 
beside  her  pillow  gave  a  buzz,  more  terrifying  than 
a  shout  of  fire,  an  earthquake,  a  knife  at  the  throat. 
Brantome  was  speaking.  Parr  had  returned  to 
the  house  in  Greenwich  Village.  Lawrence  Teck 
had  sailed  secretly,  that  day,  for  Africa. 

She  replaced  the  receiver  on  the  hook,  rested 
her  head  on  her  hands,  and  remained  thus  for  a 
long  while.  In  the  end  she  formed  the  words : 

"That  woman." 

She  was  thinking  of  "the  infallible  clairvoy 
ant." 


PAET  m 


CHAPTER  XLVIH 

IN  the  early  morning,  while  the  trees  round 
the  house  were  still  full  of  mist,  Lilla,  in  her  sit 
ting  room,  at  the  tall  Venetian  desk  of  green  and 
gold  lacquer,  redrafted  for  the  twentieth  time  the 
message  that  she  wanted  to  send  after  Lawrence 
Teck  by  wireless.  The  rich  scintillations  from 
the  polished  surfaces  before  her  enveloped  her  dis 
tracted  countenance  in  a  new,  greenish  pallor,  as 
she  traced,  now  heavily,  now  very  faintly,  the 
words : 

"If  you  knew  what  youVe  done " 

She  paused ;  for  the  confusion  of  her  brain  made 
her  think  of  a  squirrel  frantically  racing  in  a  re 
volving  cage.  Then,  seeing  nothing  except  the 
pen  point,  she  wrote  slowly,  "What  have  you 
done  ?  What  have  you  done  I ' '  And  suddenly,  in 
a  convulsive  hand  that  sprawled  over  half  the 
page,  "Betrayed!"  She  stared  at  these  words 
in  amazement. 

Hamoud-bin-Said  entered  the  sitting  room. 

He  had  on  the  dark  blue  joho  edged  with  a  red 
pattern.  His  snowy  under  robe  was  bound  with 
a  blue  and  red  sash  'from  which  protruded  the  sil- 

247 


SACRIFICE 

ver  hilt  of  his  dagger.    His  tan-colored,  clear-cut, 
delicately  bearded  face  was  expressionless,  as  he 
said  softly : 
"The  morning  paper.'' 

And  she  realized  that  the  whole  story  had  been 
discovered,  scattered  broadcast. 

For  a  time  Hamoud  regarded  the  prostration 
of  her  spirit  from  the  heights  of  fatalism.  But 
presently,  as  he  contemplated  that  limp  pose, 
which  added  one  more  novelty  to  her  innumerable 
beautiful  appearances,  the  stoicism  that  had  made 
him  look  mature  gave  way  to  the  fervor  of  youth 
— his  limpid  eyes  turned  to  fire ;  his  full,  precisely 
chiseled  lips  were  distorted  by  a  pang.  He  ap 
peared  as  before,  however,  when  she  raised  her 
head  and  uttered: 

"Burn  it." 

His  reverie  had  a  flavor  of  commiseration  now, 
as  though  he  were  saying  to  himself,  "Who  can 
catch  all  the  leaves  before  they  fall  to  the  ground? 
Who  can  sweep  back  the  waves  of  the  sea?"  He 
responded : 

"The  men  who  make  these  things  have  been 
telephoning  half  the  night.  And  now  they  are 
here  themselves." 

"Here!" 

"They  are  sitting  on  the  steps,"  he  affirmed, 
lost  in  a  gloomy,  relishing  consideration  of  the 
wonders  of  life.  "They  wish  to  talk  to  you  and 
to  Mr.  Verne." 

248 


SACRIFICE 

He  pronounced  these  words  as  if  he  had  no  idea 
of  their  enormity. 

Her  spirit  stirred  at  this  threat.  All  seemed 
lost  except  the  phenomenon  of  David  living,  by 
which,  in  her  distraction,  she  hoped  somehow  to 
justify  herself.  To  the  amazement  of  the  world 
one  might  oppose  the  fact  of  genius  miraculously 
unfolding  through  her  sacrifice.  But  she  thought, 
"The  world!  What  is  that?"  And  thereupon, 
"All  the  same  it  shall  not  strike  down  this  help 
less  creature."  And  the  world  became  a  monster, 
unfeeling,  indeed  immeasurably  malign,  lying  far 
off  with  the  teeming  cells  of  its  brain  all  plotting 
to  rob  Her  of  her  wretched  victory,  and  with  the 
claws  of  one  outstretched  paw  already  touching 
the  threshold  of  this  house. 

"You  are  to  drive  them  away." 

She  went  on  groping  for  phrases  as  one  gropes 
for  objects  in  the  3ark,  telling  Hamoud  that  hence 
forth  nobody  from  outside  the  house  was  to  see 
David  till  she  had  been  informed,  that  all  news 
papers  and  letters  must  come  first  to  her,  that  the 
servants  must  not  show  by  so  much  as  a  look — 
She  became  aware  that  among  these  phrases  she 
was  uttering,  with  an  air  of  calm  consideration, 
others  that  had  no  intelligible  meaning,  no  rela 
tion  to  her  objective  thoughts.  She  heard  herself 
say,  "Perhaps  I  had  better  see  the  servants  my 
self.  It  would  be  a  queer  thing  if  there  were  a 
draft  from  the  pantry.  There  is  a  red  pillow  in  the 

249 


SACRIFICE 

fernery;  it  must  be  hidden — the  spears,  too " 

She  gazed  in  perplexity  at  Hamoud,  who  appeared 
to  be  floating  before  her  at  the  end  of  a  dark  tun 
nel. 

"For  how  long?"  he  sighed. 

"For  how  long! "  she  repeated  plaintively. 

He  seemed  to  grow  taller.  His  face,  which  had 
taken  on  a  blank  aspect,  resembled  the  faces  of 
those  who,  in  Oriental  tales,  stand  waiting  to  ful 
fil  a  wish  too  sinister  to  have  become  an  audible 
command.  In  that  instant  she  saw  all  problems 
rushing  to  their  solution,  except  one ;  all  treasures 
recaptured,  except  the  peace  of  conscience.  She 
struggled  as  one  might  to  awake  from  some  hyp 
notic  spell  in  which  one  has  been  assailed  with 
frightful  suggestions.  She  sprang  up  and  trans 
fixed  him  with  a  look. 

"Go!    Do  as  I  say!" 

He  bowed  and  departed. 

At  once  she  became  so  weary  that  she  could 
hardly  reach  her  couch. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked  herself  in  a  lost 
voice. 

Somewhere,  no  doubt,  there  was  another  Lilla, 
sane,  able  to  act  as  well  as  to  think,  capable  of 
solving  even  this  dilemma.  But  that  other  Lilla 
remained  far  away,  perhaps  in  the  realm  of  those 
who,  with  an  Alexandrian  gesture,  ruthlessly  cut 
the  knot  of  interwoven  scruples,  and  for  a  brief 
season  triumphed  over  the  accidents  of  life !  Kais- 

250 


SACRIFICE 

ing  her  eyes  in  despair,  she  saw  trembling  on  the 
ceiling  a  ray  of  light  that  resembled  the  blade  of 
a  spear. 

There  descended  upon  her  the  full  weight  of 
her  forebodings — the  superstitions  dread  that  was 
typical  of  her  emotional  defectiveness,  and  that 
had  its  origin,  perhaps,  in  those  two  unhappy  per 
sons  who  had  been  her  parents.  Yet  when  she 
moaned,  "Ah,  Anna  Zanidov!"  it  was  with  an  ac 
cent  of  reproach  as  keen  as  though  the  prophetess 
of  a  tragedy  must  be  the  cause  of  it. 

The  sunshine  was  dissolving  the  luxurious  room. 
There  came  to  her,  like  a  dullness  from  a  drug, 
the  fancy  that  this  world  had  no  existence  except 
that  with  which  her  credulity  had  endowed  it. 
"All  my  life  I  have  been  dreaming  this  dream  in 
which  Lawrence  and  David,  Hamoud  and  Anna 
Zanidov,  America  and  Africa,  are  figments.  Pres 
ently  I  shall  wake  and  wonder  why  all  these  fig 
ments  gave  me  so  much  pain." 

She  floated  deliciously  in  this  thought.  She  re 
flected,  with  a  vague  smile : 

"I  must  go  and  restore  the  appearance  of  happi 
ness  to  that  poor  phantom  downstairs. " 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

LILLA  descended  the  staircase  in  the  transplen- 
dency  of  the  many  colored  windowpanes.  The  red 
of  rubies,  the  blue  of  sapphires,  the  green  of 
emeralds,  enwrapped  her  slim  body  that  was  still 
phenomenally  moving  in  its  habitual  harmonious- 
ness.  The  serene  progress  of  her  person  through 
prismatic  light,  the  smile  that  passed  unchanged 
through  rays  of  varying  resplendence,  added  an 
other  stanza  to  the  poetry  of  flesh,  a  stanza  differ 
ing  from  all  the  rest,  however,  in  its  ominous  qual 
ity  of  strangeness.  For  now,  bathed  in  the  fortui 
tous  magnificence  of  the  stained  glass,  she  shone 
in  herself  with  an  unearthly  bloom,  as  if  an  ab 
normality  that  had  always  permeated  her  seduc 
tiveness  were  now  at  its  apogee — as  if,  with  no 
one  to  witness,  she  had  reached  the  utter  expres 
sion  of  her  loveliness,  which  blazed  forth  for  an 
instant  completely,  before  dissolving  in  this 
strange  element  that  mingled  with  it. 

The  multicolored  lights  released  her.  A  pale, 
cold  atmosphere  closed  round  her  as  she  traversed 
the  sunless  hall  and  living  room.  Beyond  the 
doorway  of  the  study  this  cold  pallor  rested  on 

252 


SACRIFICE 

the  figure  in  the  wheel  chair — the  phantom  because 
of  which  that  other  phantom  was  traveling  toward 
an  exotic  semblance  of  death.  He  had  not  heard 
her  footsteps.  He  remained  with  his  head  bowed 
forward,  a  prey,  no  doubt,  to  such  anxiety  as 
ghosts  experience.  He  expressed  perfectly  that 
helplessness  with  which,  when  she  had  believed  him 
to  be  real,  he  had  laid  hold  of  her  pity. 

The  outlines  of  all  objects  round  her  were  clear 
and  hard :  everything  had  assumed  a  look  of  pre 
ternatural  density.  She  stood  paralyzed  by  the 
thought,  "It  is  not  illusion.  It  is  reality.'* 

He  was  looking  at  her. 

What  did  he  read  in  her  face?  Had  he,  too, 
heard  the  command  that  seemed  to  have  been 
shouted  in  her  ears,  "Tell  him!  Strike  and  be 
free!" 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered. 

Her  lips  parted,  writhed,  and  uttered  no  sound. 
She  was  struck  dumb,  no  doubt  by  the  feeling  that 
if  she  spoke  she  would  blurt  out  everything,  in 
obedience  to  that  atrocious  command. 

All  at  once  she  seemed  to  have  flames  in  her 
eyes.  Everything  had  turned  the  color  of  gold. 
She  stood  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  face 
changed  by  anguish;  then  she  fled  through  that 
golden  dazzle.  On  the  staircase  the  many-colored 
rays  reached  out  to  hold  her,  to  restore  her  to 
that  exquisite  transfiguration ;  she  passed  through 
them  in  a  flash ;  and  indeed  they  could  now  have 

253 


SACRIFICE 

enhanced,  instead  of  beauty,  only  the  triumph  of 
that  element  which  had  made  her  beauty  strange. 
She  stretched  herself  upon  her  couch,  on  her  back, 
in  the  attitude  of  the  dead.  She  pronounced  with 
an  extreme  rapidity,  in  muffled  tones : 

' 'I  am  on  the  ship Faster!    Faster !" 

She  uttered  a  cry  that  was  heard  all  over  the 
house. 

When  Hamoud  and  the  servants  came  running, 
they  found  her  rigid;  but  while  they  were  tele 
phoning  for  the  nearest  physician  the  convulsions 
began.  Tossing  about,  she  showed  intense  fear  of 
all  who  tried  to  approach  her.  The  women  ran 
from  the  room.  Hamoud  remained,  rigid  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  his  face  a  dingy  white,  staring  be 
fore  him  as  one  who  meditates  on  some  immense, 
intolerable  injury.  When  her  cries  burst  forth, 
he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  dagger,  as  if  against 
these  invisible  forces,  these  jinn  from  the  Pit,  that 
had  taken  possession  of  her. 

The  physician  arrived  to  find  the  convulsions 
ended.  Hamoud,  now  gripping  his  dagger  as  if 
he  would  presently  escape  this  scene  by  plunging 
the  blade  into  his  breast,  uttered : 

"Dying?" 

"It  will  pass,"  the  physician  answered,  with  a 
movement  of  reproof. 

Hamoud,  afflicted  by  disbelief,  by  a  despair  that 
swept  away  his  fatalism,  by  a  fury  that  called  for 
revenge,  bared  his  teeth  and  demanded : 

254 


SACRIFICE 

*  *  I  shall  bring  him  ?    We  show  her  to  him  ? ' ' 

"Who?" 

Hamoud  glanced  malignantly  toward  the  floor. 

"Hardly!" 

The  physician  resumed  his  contemplation  of  the 
patient,  who  had  descended  into  a  stupor  that  was 
to  last  for  days. 


CHAPTER  L 

THERE  was  a  hush  over  the  honse  amid  the  old 
trees.  The  servants  moved  softly  through  the 
corridors,  paused  to  whisper  to  one  another,  then 
hurried  out  of  sight  as  David  Verne  appeared  in 
his  wheel  chair,  slowly  propelled  toward  the  sick 
room  by  Hamoud. 

She  seemed  hardly  to  breathe  as  she  lay  in  the 
gloom  through  which  drifted  the  white  uniforms 
of  the  nurses,  amid  a  dim  glamour  from  all  the 
charming  objects  that  had  been  meant  to  please 
her  senses.  Her  hair  was  spread  out  on  the  pillow 
to  frame  her  colorless  face,  which  had  now  at 
tained  indeed  the  look  of  the  "angelic  messenger. " 
But  the  angelic  messenger,  the  bearer  of  life  to 
him,  seemed  to  David  on  the  point  of  returning  to 
the  source  of  life. 

He  sat  at  the  bedside,  sometimes  unable  to  ex 
tend  his  hand  to  touch  her  hand,  as  though  his 
strength  were  wholly  a  reflection  of  her  strength, 
so  that  with  the  latter 's  waning  the  former  must 
flicker  out. 

"What  is  it?"  he  thought,  lost  in  misery  and 
wonder. 

256 


The  physicians  and  the  nurse  looked  at  him 
askance,  their  secret  pent  in  behind  their  lips. 

He  felt  round  him  the  pressure  of  this  secret. 
The  air  was  full  of  thoughts  that  he  eould  not  ap 
prehend.  Behind  the  benignant  evasiveness  of  the 
doctors  he  seemed  to  discern  a  fact,  like  a  thunder 
bolt  withheld.  He  recoiled  from  his  conjectures, 
to  cower  amid  these  shadows  which  he  felt  might 
be  less  agonizing  than  that  flash  of  light. 

There  was  no  reason  for  alarm,  they  told  him. 
And  instead  of  being  mysterious  it  was  a  per 
fectly  denned  case  of  nerves,  hysteria,  emotional 
collapse. 

Ah,  yes;  but  from  what  cause? 

Even  Hamoud,  he  was  sure,  knew  something 
that  he  did  not  know.  The  Arab,  while  apparently 
as  solicitous  as  ever,  was  changed.  He  had  taken 
on,  merely  in  his  physical  aspect,  a  new  quality: 
he  seemed  taller  than  formerly,  and  older.  Amid 
all  his  tasks  he  moved  with  a  sort  of  feline  rest 
lessness.  He  took  to  prowling  at  night,  round  and 
round  the  bleak  garden.  The  robed  figure  paced 
the  paths  with  an  effect  of  stealing  carefully  to 
ward  an  enemy.  In  the  light  from  a  window  his 
fine  profile  appeared  for  an  instant  like  a  present 
ment  of  vengeance — with  something  sensual  in  its 
look  of  cruelty. 

Now  and  then,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  David 
became  aware  that  Hamoud  had  entered  the  room 
without  a  sound,  to  watch  him  from  the  deepest 

257 


SACRIFICE 

mass  of  shadows.  One  could  make  out  only  the 
pale  blotch  that  was  his  white  skullcap,  and  the 
long  pale  streak  that  was  the  uncovered  portion 
of  his  white  under  robe.  The  eyes,  the  expression 
of  the  face,  were  lost  in  blackness. 

"I  thought  you  called?' 

And  he  was  gone. 

In  his  own  room,  having  noiselessly  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  he  drew  from  his  bosom  the 
Koran.  Holding  the  book  reverently  in  his  small, 
right  hand,  he  raised  his  head,  ancl  stood  waiting 
with  closed  eyes  for  inspiration.  Presently,  open 
ing  the  Koran,  he  read : 

"The  doom  of  God  cometh  to  pass." 

This  text  was  the  answer  to  his  prayer  for  guid 
ance! 

He  seated  himself  by  the  window,  and  gazed  out 
into  the  darkness.  He  considered  piously  the  won 
ders  of  terrestrial  life,  a  succession  of  accidents  all 
foreordained  by  God,  an  apparent  drifting  that 
was  in  fact  one  steady  propulsion  by  the  hand  of 
fate.  From  the  rich,  ancestral  house  of  coraline 
limestone  across  the  sea  to  strange  lands.  From 
dignity  to  abasement.  From  loneliness  to  this 
faint,  delicious  fragrance  in  which  the  heart  dis 
solved.  From  a  dream  of  freedom  to  the  service 
of  love  through  the  agency  of  death. 


CHAPTER  LI 

IT  was  twilight.  David  Verne  sat  in  the 
study,  his  chin  on  his  breast.  Hamoud,  appearing 
in  the  doorway,  gazed  round  the  room.  He  had  a 
folded  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

He  looked  carefully  at  the  fireplace,  where  logs 
were  piled  ready  for  lighting  over  a  heap  of  brush 
wood  and  crumpled  wrapping  paper.  Then  he  re 
garded  the  center  table,  on  which  stood  the  Vene 
tian  goblet,  the  caraffe,  and  the  bottle  filled  with 
the  medicine  prescribed  by  Dr.  Fallows.  In  the 
expiring  daylight  Hamoud,  motionless  in  his 
robes,  loomed  paler  than  usual,  his  handsome  face 
very  grave. 

The  piano  attracted  his  attention.  In  the  shad 
ows  it  had  the  aspect  of  a  squatting  monster  that 
bared  at  him  the  teeth  of  its  wide  mouth.  As  if 
he  had  been  awaiting  this  grotesque  effect  of  chal 
lenge,  he  moved  toward  the  hazy  windows,  and  be 
gan  to  curtain  them. 

David  murmured  listlessly : 

"Has  the  doctor  gone?" 

Hamoud  gave  a  slight  start.  With  his  hand  on 
the  last  window  curtain,  he  inclined  his  head,  lis- 

259 


SACEIFICE 

tening  in  awe  to  the  tremor  of  that  voice.  When 
he  had  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips  he  re 
sponded  : 

"Yes." 

He  drew  the  last  cnrtain  slowly.  'As  He  did  so, 
his  visage,  sharpened  by  the  dying  light,  was 
turned  toward  David;  his  gemlike  lips,  without 
parting,  seemed  to  say,  "Look!  it  is  the  world  of 
sky  and  trees,  of  sunrise  and  noon,  sunset  and 
night,  that  I  am  shutting  out." 

The  study  lay  in  darkness. 

Through  this  darkness  Hamoud  moved  silently 
toward  the  center  table.  He  tweaked  the  lamp 
cord:  a  gush  of  mellow  rays  leaped  out  to  cover 
the  scattered  piles  of  manuscript,  the  Venetian 
goblet,  the  bottle  of  medicine.  Hamoud  moved  the 
wheel  chair  closer  to  these  objects,  so  that  David 
by  reaching  forth  his  hand  might  touch  them  if 
he  wished.  Then,  after  stepping  back  to  consider 
this  arrangement  with  a  strained  look,  he  went 
to  the  fireplace,  lighted  a  match,  blew  it  out,  and 
laid  it  on  the  hearth.  David  stared  at  him. 

"You  have  not  lighted  the  fire.  It  is  cold  to-, 
night." 

Again  Hamoud  listened  in  awe  to  the  sound  of 
that  voice. 

"It  is  cold,"  he  assented  'softly,  with  a  shiver. 

Still  kneeling  on  the  hearth,  he  contemplated  the 
other  as  though  he  were  seeing  him  now  for  the 
first  time.  The  feeble,  romantic  face  before  him 

260 


SACRIFICE 

was  not  so  pallid  as  his  face ;  those  enlarged,  ques 
tioning  eyes  were  not  so  strange  as  his  eyes.  At 
that  stare  of  undefined  alarm  he  felt,  despite  all 
his  jealousy,  contempt,  and  hatred,  a  twinge  of 
weakness;  he  remembered  all  the  other's  helpless 
attitudes  that  he  had  sustained  and  eased.  Of  a 
sudden  the  habit  of  protection  grappled  with  his 
resolve,  and  might  have  conquered,  for  a  time  at 
any  rate,  had  he  not  recalled  the  sufferings  of  the 
beloved. 

He  rose  and  approached  the  wheel  chair.  The 
newspaper  was  in  his  left  hand,  half  concealed, 
like  a  weapon,  in  the  folds  of  his  robe. 

He  heard  a  feeble  cry : 

"What  has  happened?    What  has  happened?" 

"And  I  who  have  eaten  his  bread,"  thought 
Hamoud,  in  sudden  shame  and  horror. 

If  only  some  one  would  come !  But  the  shadowy 
perspective  of  the  living  room  remained  empty; 
and  there  was  nowhere  any  sound  except  the  beat 
ing  of  his  heart. 

He  lifted  the  bottle  containing  the  solution  of 
arsenic. 

"Have  not  taken  any  of  this?"  He  pro 
nounced  in  a  tone  of  suffocation.  "Remember 
must  never  take  it  until  Hamoud  has  dropped  it." 

He  set  down  the  bottle.  It  fell  upon  its  side. 
But  alas !  it  did  not  break. 

' '  Hamoud !  what  has  happened  ? ' ' 

In  mercy,  with  a  violent  gesture,  with  a  sensa- 
261 


SACRIFICE 

tion  of  sickness,  he  thrust  the  newspaper  into 
David's  hands.  "Done!  No  chance  to  turn  back 
now!"  He  rolled  the  folding  doors  together  be 
hind  him  and  leaned  against  them,  his  face  beaded 
with  sweat,  panting  as  if  in  escaping  that  room  he 
had  run  a  mile.  He  listened.  How  his  heart 
thumped!  He  heard  nothing.  "Has  he  the  cour 
age,  though  ?  Alone  with  those  thoughts ! ' '  Lean 
ing  against  the  door,  through  which  came  never  a 
sound,  Hamoud  began  to  weep,  for  the  man  whom 
he  had  served,  for  her,  and  for  himself. 

Yes,  the  Oman  stock,  cruel  and  remorseless  in 
its  pristine  state,  had  deteriorated  in  the  lax  para 
dise  of  Zanzibar ;  the  old  impulses  were  there,  but 
in  abortive  form;  and  the  deed  that  Hamoud 's 
forefathers  would  have  done  less  indirectly,  and 
without  a  twinge,  aroused  in  Hamoud  that  pity 
which  an  ironist  has  called  "the  mask  of  weak 
ness.  " 

Next  morning,  when  they  asked  him  to  state  his 
whole  knowledge  of  the  matter,  he  told  them  that 
as  he  had  been  about  to  light  the  fire  Mr.  Verne 
had  seen,  amid  the  brushwood,  a  bit  of  newspaper 
showing  his  name  in  large  type.  It  was  there,  no 
doubt,  in  consequence  of  the  servants'  careless 
ness. 

"But  you  gave  it  to  him,"  the  local  chief  of 
police  remarked  severely. 

"Before  I  knew." 

Their  indignation  was  softened  by  his  crushed 
262 


SACRIFICE 

mien,  and  by  his  inflamed  eyes.  Having  arrived 
at  their  verdict,  they  discussed  Arabs — or,  as  they 
called  them,  "Ayrabs" — and  one  honest  old  fel 
low  even  paid  the  race  a  compliment,  in  saying: 

' ' It's  said  that  when  they  like  a  person  they  will 
do  anything  for  them." 

It  was  Hamoud  who  told  her. 

The  nurse,  stealing  a  nap  on  the  couch  in  the 
sitting  room,  did  not  stir  as  he  passed  into  the 
bedchamber;  but  Lilla  awoke  at  the  command  of 
his  eyes.  When  he  had  finished  speaking : 

"No!"  she  sighed,  as  the  world  burst  into  frag 
ments,  and,  like  the  bits  of  colored  glass  in  a 
kaleidoscope,  slid  swiftly  into  a  new  pattern.  "Ah, 
the  poor  soul!  The  poor  soul!"  She  saw  him 
more  clearly,  she  understood  him  better,  than  in 
life.  "All  for  nothing!" 

No,  surely  not  all  for  nothing! 

At  any  rate,  these  were  tears  of  convalescence. 


CHAPTER  LH 

A  FORTNIGHT  later,  as  she  sat  in  a  deep  chair  in. 
the  living  room,  Hamoud  presented  himself  in  the 
doorway,  to  announce : 

"He  is  here." 

Parr  crept  into  her  presence. 

The  little,  grizzled  fellow  advanced  a  few  steps, 
limping  on  his  cane,  then  halted,  frightened  by  this 
thin,  white-faced  woman  who,  her  chin  in  her 
cupped  hand,  sat  staring  at  him  with  the  cold  eyes 
of  a  queen  about  to  condemn  a  malefactor  to  death. 
She  was  wrapped  in  a  negligee  of  peach-colored 
silk  from  the  flowing  sleeves  of  which  long  tassels 
trailed  on  the  rug.  The  morning  light,  as  though 
lured  from  all  other  objects  in  the  room  by  this 
motionless,  fine  figure,  accentuated  her  appearance 
of  iciness.  She  spoke,  too,  in  the  voice  of  a 
stranger,  in  accents  that  thrilled  with  a  force  pro 
duced  incongruously  from  so  emaciated  a  body. 

"Come  closer.    I  want  to  look  at  you." 

He  resumed  his  tremulous  advance  very  slowly, 
because  he  was  so  heavily  burdened  by  his  loyalty 
to  the  beloved  master  and  his  treason  to  this  once 
gentle  benefactress.  Casting  down  his  eyes,  he 

264 


SACRIFICE 

stood  before  her  abjectly  leaning  on  his  cane. 
His  honest,  deeply  lined  face  twitched  painfully; 
for  he  could  feel  her  scorn  passing  over  him  like 
a  winter  blast.  He  faltered : 

"I  was  helpless,  ma'am.  I  only  did  as  he  or 
dered.  He  thought  it  best.  He  believed  it 
wouldn  't  leak  out.  We  took  all  precautions. ' '  He 
told  her  how  Lawrence  Teck  had  taken  him  from 
the  Greenwich  Village  house  to  an  obscure  hotel, 
where  they  had  found  a  strange  gentleman,  slen 
der,  with  a  fatigued,  nervous  face,  almost  too 
fastidiously  dressed  to  be  another  traveler,  smok 
ing  constantly,  saying  nothing.  This  gentleman's 
name — it  was  altogether  a  disjointed,  feverish 
business  anyway — had  never  been  pronounced  in 
Parr's  hearing.  The  stranger  had  seemed  at  once 
a  torment  and  a  comfort  to  Mr.  Teck.  Occasion 
ally,  when  Parr  entered,  it  was  as  if  he  had  inter 
rupted  a  distressing  scene.  Mr.  Teck  had  then 
jumped  up  with  a  queer  smile,  knocking  against 
the  chairs  as  he  went  to  look  out  of  the  window. 
There  the  strange  gentleman  would  join  him,  to 
put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  soothe  him  in  a  low 
voice.  Then  one  morning  Mr.  Teck's  rooms  were 
empty;  and  the  hotel  clerk  handed  Parr  an  en 
velope  containing  some  banknotes  and  the  scrawl, 
"Good-by.  God  bless  you.  Remember,  keep 
quiet." 

"Here  it  is,  ma'am." 

She  snatched  the  note  from  him,  pored  over  it 
265 


SACRIFICE 

fiercely,  and  thrust  it  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown. 
Her  lashes  wearily  veiled  her  implacable  stare. 

"You  fool.  You  should  have  seen  that  he  wasn't 
in  his  senses.  Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  should  be  there,"  Parr  quavered.  "By 
this  time  he  might  be  inland. ' ' 

She  saw  a  stream  of  men  flowing  in  through  the 
jungle,  a  human  river  doomed  to  roll  at  last  over 
some  tragic  brink.  She  clenched  her  hands, 
seemed  about  to  rise  and  rush  out,  as  she  was,  in 
pursuit.  She  said: 

"You  are  going  with  me." 

His  jaw  sagged.  Gaping  round  him,  taking  the 
whole  room  as  witness  to  this  folly,  he  cried  out, 
' l  Where  to  ? "  When  she  began  to  speak  he  sagged 
forward  over  his  cane,  drinking  in  the  verification 
of  her  incredible  desire.  Her  attitude  did  not 
change;  her  face  remained  cold;  her  lips  hardly 
moved;  but  he  was  aware  of  a  tremendous  force 
behind  the  words,  of  something  inflexible,  invin 
cible,  grand — perhaps  of  a  flame  without  heat  that 
filled  her  empty  heart  with  an  unearthly  corus 
cation,  like  a  radiance  thrown  back  from  the  walls 
of  a  cavern  of  ice. 

"Do  you  want  to  die,  ma'am?" 

"I?"  Her  voice  expressed  in  that  syllable  such 
arrogance  as  youth  feels  at  the  thought  of  death ; 
yet  she  did  not  look  young — she  looked  as  old  as 
eternity,  and  as  passionless  and  overpowering. 

He  bowed  his  head  beneath  the  pressure  of  this 
266 


SACKIFICE 

will,  and  the  weight  of  his  obligation.  He  per 
ceived  the  uselessness  of  describing  to  her  the 
dangers  that  she  would  run  there,  especially  at  the 
season  that  was  beginning.  Still,  for  a  moment 
he  pondered  the  trouble  he  would  have  in  taking 
his  broken  body  on  that  pilgrimage.  "And  this 
time  it  will  get  me :  just  one  or  two  little  chills, ' ' 
he  reflected,  thinking  of  black-water  fever.  The 
thought  came  to  him,  however,  that  his  life  was  no 
longer  worth  much,  even  to  himself.  This  sitting 
with  folded  hands,  a  cane  between  one's  knees,  in 
the  tidy  little  house  that  she  had  given  him — and 
but  for  her  it  might  have  been  the  crutches ! 

Besides,  if  he  lasted  that  long,  he  might  fill  his 
nostrils  once  more  with  the  smell  of  Africa,  see 
the  little  fires  of  the  safari  flickering  against  the 
green  cane  brakes,  hear  the  songs  of  the  march  and 
the  crooning  of  the  camp  and  the  voices  of  the 
jungle  under  the  crowded  stars. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

SHE  crossed  the  Atlantic,  traveled  swiftly  down 
from  Cherbourg  to  Marseilles,  embarked  on  a  ship 
that  steamed  through  the  Mediterranean  toward 
the  Orient.  At  last  she  saw  Port  Said,  Suez,  and 
the  red  and  purple  lava  islands  of  the  Bed  Sea, 
splendid  in  a  sunset  of  extravagant  hues. 

The  heat  was  intense. 

But  the  ship  emerged  from  the  Gulf  of  Aden 
into  a  still  greater  heat ;  and  suddenly  the  air  was 
saturated  with  moisture.  The  walls  and  the  ceil 
ing  of  her  cabin  were  covered  with  drops  of  water ; 
exposed  objects  were  defaced  by  rust  and  mildew 
overnight;  while  the  human  body  seemed  to  be 
deliquescing  in  a  torrid  steam.  A  sickly  breeze, 
filled  with  the  odors  of  a  strange  world,  hardly 
rippled  the  languid  sea. 

On  the  right,  beyond  a  heat  mist  through  which 
flying  fish  were  darting,  loomed  a  new  coastline. 
Yellow  beaches  appeared,  interrupted  by  lagoons 
where  the  slow  waves  abruptly  spouted  high  into 
the  air — white  geysers  against  somber  forests  and 
jungles.  From  these  dark  green  fastnesses,  as 
cending  threads  of  smoke  inveigled  the  gaze  far 

268 


SACRIFICE 

upward  into  space,  to  where,  above  a  belt  of  hazy 
blue  that  one  had  taken  for  the  sky,  mountain 
peaks  revealed  themselves,  unrelated  to  the  earth, 
and  half  dissolved,  like  a  mirage. 

Night  fell.  The  velvety  blackness  of  the  heavens 
was  powdered  with  star  dust ;  in  the  wash  of  the 
ship  there  gleamed  a  profound  phosphorescence, 
as  from  a  decaying  ocean.  The  coast  hung  like  a 
mass  of  inky  vapor  above  the  fitful  shimmer  of  the 
surf  from  which  was  wafted  a  faint,  interminable 
booming  that  suggested  the  roaring  of  lions  and 
the  thunder  of  savage  drums. 

Lilla  emerged  from  her  cabin,  crossed  the  deck, 
and  laid  her  hands  upon  the  softly  quivering  rail. 
Close  beside  her  the  darkness  gave  up  a  ghost — 
Hamoud,  who  also  stood  silent,  gazing  toward  the 
coast.  His  robes  exhaled  an  odor  of  musk  and 
aloes. 

"Africa,  madam,"  he  uttered  at  last  in  a  voice 
that  lost  itself  in  the  clinging  darkness  and  the 
smothering  heat. 

And  soon  a  languid  ecstasy  stole  over  him. 

His  heart  swelled  as  he  drank  in,  at  the  same 
time,  the  exhalations  of  his  native  land  and  the 
faint  fragrance  of  her  hair.  In  the  darkness  he 
perceived  with  his  mind's  eye  both  her  beauty  and 
the  well-remembered  beauty  of  the  spice  isles. 
The  palm-crowned  hills  encircled  the  lapis-lazuli 
harbor  of  Zanzibar,  on  whose  waters  he  saw  him 
self  sailing,  with  this  mortal  treasure,  In  a  hand- 

269 


SACRIFICE 

some  dhow,  the  tasseled  prow  shaped  like  the  head 
of  ihe  she-camel  sent  from  heaven  to  the  Thamud 
tribesmen,  the  mast  fluttering  the  pennants  of 
ancient  sultans.  Then  the  dhow  with  the  camel 
prow  became  a  panoplied  camel,  on  which  he  and 
she  were  being  borne  away  to  Oman,  the  land  of 
his  fathers,  which  he  had  never  seen.  There,  in 
those  rugged  mountains,  he  would  become,  as  his 
ancestors  had  been — vigorous  of  will,  fierce  and 
great,  triumphant  in  war  and  love. 

For  a  long  while  he  stood  there  trembling  gently 
in  unison  with  the  ship,  thought  linking  itself  to 
thought,  and  image  to  image,  his  fancies  growing 
ever  more  bizarre  yet  ever  more  distinct,  as  though 
he  were  inhaling,  instead  of  the  faint  perfume  of 
her  hair,  the  smoke  of  hasheesh. 

But  she  had  forgotten  him. 


CHAPTER  LTV 

IN  the  thick  sunshine,  below  the  cloudlike 
mountains,  sandbanks  unrolled  themselves  between 
the  mouths  of  the  equatorial  rivers  flanked  by  man 
grove  forests.  At  last,  in  the  depths  of  a  bay  of 
glittering,  brownish  water,  the  porf  town  ap 
peared,  a  mass  of  red-tiled  roofs  spread  along  the 
gray  seawall  that  suggested  a  fortress. 

Through  sandy  thoroughfares  bordered  with 
acacia  trees  rode  hollow-eyed  Europeans  in  little 
cars,  which  half-naked  negroes  pushed  along  a 
narrow-gauge  railway.  The  languor  of  those  re 
cumbent  figures  was  abruptly  disturbed,  at  the 
apparition  of  a  woman  clad  in  snowy  linen,  who 
advanced  between  a  tall,  young  Zanzibar  Arab 
and  a  small,  limping  white  man,  with  the  step  of 
a  convalescent,  but  with  eyes  that  were  filled  with 
an  extraordinary  resolution.  That  evening,  at 
the  club  house,  one  brought  word  to  the  rest  that 
she  was  Lawrence  Teck's  wife. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  profane  surprise  in  half 
a  dozen  tongues;  for  this  was  the  end  of  March, 
the  climax  of  the  rainy  summer,  when  the  land  was 
full  of  rotting  vegetation  and  mephitic  vapors,  of 
mosquitoes  and  tsetse  flies,  malaria  and  fever. 

271 


SACRIFICE 

"Is  he  coming  out,  then?"  said  one.  "Where 
is  he  this  time,  by  the  way?"  "All  the  same," 
another  remarked,  "I'll  wager  that  he  isn't  aware 
of  this.  Looks  as  if  she  were  planning  a  recon 
ciliation  by  surprise!" 

"She  seems  ill  already.  She'll  last  in  this  place 
about  as  long  as  an  orchid  in  a  saucepan." 

"But,  my  friend,  she  wants  to  go  in  after  him, 
it  appears.  She's  with  the  governor  now." 

At  that  moment,  indeed,  the  governor  was  pa 
tiently  repeating  his  remonstrances  to  Lilla. 

They  sat  in  a  large,  white  room  with  shuttered 
windows,  beneath  a  punkah  that  kept  churning  up 
the  dead  air,  beside  a  carved  table  on  which  stood 
a  tray  of  untouched  coffee  cups.  The  governor 
was  a  studious,  sick-looking  gentleman  with  a 
pince-nez  over  his  jaundiced  eyes,  and  with  long 
mustaches  frizzed  out  before  his  ears.  He  wore 
a  white  duck  uniform  adorned  with  gilt  shoulder 
straps,  an  aiguillette,  and  a  bar  of  service  ribbons 
brilliantly  plaided  and  striped.  Anaemic  from  ma 
laria,  and  harassed  by  fever,  he  showed  while  he 
was  talking  to  Lilla  a  look  of  exhaustion  and  pain. 
Now  and  again,  after  puffing  his  cigarette,  he  gave 
a  feeble  cough  and  rolled  up  his  eyes.  Then,  in  a 
monotonous,  dull  tone  he  began  again  to  express 
his  various  objections. 

Mr.  Teck  had  gone  in  from  a  northern  port  a 
month  ago.  He  had  passed  by  Fort  Pero  d'An- 
haya,  telling  the  commandant  there  that  he  was 

272 


SACEIFICE 

bound  back  for  the  region  in  which  his  principals 
might  presently  seek  a  concession.  He  was,  no 
doubt,  at  present  in  the  gorges  beyond  the  forests 
of  the  Mambava.  He  had  with  him  a  strong  safari 
and  a  gentleman  friend. 

"What  friend?"  asked  Lilla,  who  had  been  list 
lessly  waiting  for  this  monologue  to  cease. 

"I  don't  remember.  But  I  can,  of  course,  find 
out." 

"It's  not  worth  while.    All  that  I  want  is " 

The  governor  raised  his  hand,  which  trembled 
visibly. 

"Pray  let  me  finish,  madam.  Mr.  Teck  is  in  a 
very  dangerous  place.  We  have  never  conquered 
the  Mambava ;  they  are  a  ferocious  people,  and  the 
man  who  enters  their  country  does  so  at  his  own 
risk.  Had  it  not  been  that  Mr.  Teck's  venture, 
because  of  his  peculiar  relationship  to  King 
Muene-Motapa,  might  end  in  winning  over  the 
Mambava  to  peaceful  labor  and  trade,  we  should 
never  have  given  permission.  As  for  you,  madam, 
such  a  journey  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  I  say 
nothing  about  the  climate  at  this  season.  But,  if 
you  will  pardon  me,  as  I  look  at  you  the  idea  of 
your  traveling  inland  on  safari  at  any  time  of 

year — in  fact,  I  ask  myself "  He  stared  round 

him  at  the  mildewed,  white  walls,  and  explained, 
' '  I  ask  myself,  indeed,  if  you  are  real. ' ' 

For  even  in  her  white  terai  and  belted  suit  of 
white  linen  she  was  a  vision  appropriate  only  to 

273 


SACRIFICE 

the  far-off  world  that  this  man  had  left  behind 
him  at  the  call  of  duty — a  world  of  delicate  living 
and  subtle  sensations,  of  frail  flesh  in  luxurious 
settings,  of  sophistication  that  would  have  shrunk 
from  every  crudity,  and  exquisiteness  that  would 
have  shriveled  at  the  touch  of  hardship.  This 
studious-looking,  fever-stricken  soldier,  a  noble 
man  under  a  bygone  regime  and  in  his  youth  a 
great  amateur  of  love,  had  known  well  many 
women  of  whom  this  suppliant  was  the  virtual 
counterpart,  fragile,  complex,  too  sensitive,  too 
ardent,  the  predestined  prey  of  impulses  and  dis 
abilities  that  none  but  themselves,  their  adorers, 
and  specialists  in  neurasthenia,  could  conceive  of. 
In  the  present  woman  he  discerned  the  same  lovely 
and  neurotic  countenance,  the  same  traces  of  min 
gled  fastidiousness  and  desperation,  the  same 
promises  of  exceptionally  passionate  and  tragic 
happenings. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  reflected,  coughing  feebly,  so  as 
not  to  make  his  head  ache,  "ah,  yes,  she  is  fatal. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  would  have  killed  men  for  her 
with  pleasure,"  he  told  himself,  watching  her  pale, 
golden  face.  "Fatal!  fatal!" — But  he  did  not  ask 
himself  what  fatality  had  brought  her  here.  He 
knew  her  story,  as  by  this  time  every  one  knew  it 
who  had  ever  heard  of  Lawrence  Teck,  or  David 
Verne,  or  her. 

"So  it  is  this  one  that  she  really  loves?"  he 
thought,  contemplating  rather  dismally  her  bitten 

274 


SACRIFICE 

lips,  her  lowered  eyelashes,  the  throb  of  her  throat, 
the  working  of  her  slim  fingers.  "I  know:  now 
she  must  find  him  quickly,  quickly,  quickly.  She 
cannot  sleep;  she  cannot  eat;  but  she  can  drink, 
because  she  is  always  burning ;  and  she  can  think, 
yes — but  one  thought,  only.  Ah,  the  lucky  man!" 
he  sighed,  while  beginning  to  shiver  from  his 
evening  chill. 

As  though  she  had  read  his  mind,  or  at  least 
had  discerned  his  capacity  for  understanding  her, 
she  leaned  forward,  laid  her  hand  on  his  sleeve, 
and  murmured: 

"You  have  told  me  why  I  must  not  go.  Now 
give  me  permission." 

"Do  you  then  wish  to  risk  death  just  at  this 

time?  I  should  have  thought "  He  shook  his 

head.  "No,  I  will  telegraph  to  Fort  Pero  d'An- 
haya ;  the  commandant  there  will  send  messengers 
to  the  border  of  the  Mambava  country ;  the  Mam- 
bava  will  telephone  your  message  through  their 
forests  by  drum  beat,  and  in  one  night  every  vil 
lage  will  have  the  news.  They  will  find  him  and 
tell  him,  and  he  will  come  here  to  you." 

"Too  much  time  has  passed  already.  Even  now 
I  may  be  too  late.  Besides,  he  must  not  come  to 
me;  it's  I  who  must  go  to  him."  She  blurted  out 

in  a  soft  voice,  "On  my  knees,  all  the  way " 

She  recovered  herself;  but  two  tears  suddenly 
rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  she  faltered,  "Look 

275 


SACRIFICE 

here,  you  know,  if  you  prevent  me  you  '11  be  doing 
a  terrible  thing." 

He  got  up  to  pace  the  floor.  He  was  of  short 
stature,  and  his  shoulders  were  rounded  by  desk 
work  and  the  debility  from  the  tropics ;  yet  in  the 
lost  paradise  of  youth  fair  women  had  shed  tears 
before  him  and  made  him  wax  in  their  hands.  He 
came  back  to  the  table,  absentmindedly  drank  a 
cup  of  tepid  coffee,  and  said  indignantly : 

"  Nevertheless,  you  look  far  from  well  at  this 
moment." 

"I  have  never  been  so  strong,"  she  retorted. 

"She  dares  everything,  and  no  doubt  all  the 
while  she  fears  terribly  what  she  dares.  She  is 
sublime !  "Who  am  I,  a  lump  of  sick  flesh  in  this 
fever  trap,  to  interfere  so  strictly  with  this  thing 
of  white  flame?" 

He  said  to  her : 

"Listen.  I  will  give  you  permission  to  travel  on 
safari  as  far  as  Fort  Pero  d  'Anhaya.  Beyond  that 
point  I  cannot  promise  you  protection ;  so  beyond 
you  are  not  to  go.  Mr.  Teck  must  come  to  you 
there.  To-morrow  I  will  see  these  people  of  yours, 
to  make  sure  that  they  are  competent  men,  able  to 
take  all  possible  precautions  for  your  welfare. 
Now,  then,  tell  me  at  least  that  I  am  not  as  cruel 
and  as  stupid  as  you  thought." 

When  she  had  gone,  a  young  man  in  a  white  uni 
form  entered  with  a  sheaf  of  papers.  The  gover* 
nor  smothered  a  groan. 

276 


SACRIFICE 

"The  summary  of  the  hut  tax,  Excellency.  The 
post-office  reports  for  last  month.  The  reports  of 
new  public  works — by  the  way,  the  new  bridge  at 
Maquival  has  been  finished." 

"Ah,"  said  the  governor  profoundly,  staring 
into  space,  "the  new  bridge  of  Maquival  has  been 
finished!" 


CHAPTEE  LV 

THE  equatorial  wilds  spread  before  the  safari 
its  wealth  of  extravagant  hues  and  forms,  all  its 
perfidies  veiled  for  the  allurement  of  mortals  who 
would  trust  nature  in  her  richest  manifestations. 
The  sun  shone  on  a  rain-drenched  world ;  the  earth 
steamed;  and  through  a  mist  like  that  which  pre 
faced  the  second  Biblical  version  of  creation  the 
splendor  of  the  jungle  seemed  to  be  taking  shape 
for  the  first  time,  at  the  command  of  a  power  for 
whom  beauty  was  synonymous  with  peril. 

Nevertheless,  the  safari  men  were  singing. 

Askaris  led  the  way,  Somalis  in  claret-colored 
f ezzes  and  khaki  uniforms,  bare  legged,  with  ban 
doliers  across  their  chests  and  rifles  over  their 
shoulders.  Their  small,  dark  faces  were  sharp 
and  fierce ;  they  marched  with  the  swing  of  desert 
men;  their  glances  expressed  their  pride,  their 
contempt  for  the  humble,  melodious  horde  that  fol 
lowed  after  them. 

Four  negroes,  naked  to  the  waist,  supported  a 
machilla,  a  canopied  hammock  of  white  duck  that 
swung  from  a  bamboo  pole.  They  were  Wasena, 
specially  trained  for  this  fatiguing  work,  main- 

278 


SACRIFICE 

taining  a  smooth  step  over  the  roughest  ground. 
Lilla  reclined  in  the  hammock.  Her  face,  half 
concealed  by  the  fringe  of  the  awning,  appeared 
opalescent  in  the  filtered  sunlight.  Her  tapering 
figure  had  the  grace  of  Persian  queens  and  Roman 
empresses  floating  along  in  their  litters  on  ripples 
of  dusky  muscles. 

So  this  delicate,  white  product  of  modernity, 
this  embodiment  of  civilization's  perceptions  and 
all  that  it  pays  for  them,  was  borne  at  last  into 
the  primordial  world  on  the  shoulders  of  savages. 

Behind  her  streamed  a  hundred  porters  balanc 
ing  on  their  heads  the  personal  baggage,  rolled 
tents,  chop  boxes,  sacks  of  safari  food.  They  were 
men  from  Manica,  Sofala,  and  Tete,  some  of  pure 
strain,  others  with  Arab  and  Latin  blood  in  their 
veins.  Their  bare  torsoes  were  the  color  of  choco 
late,  of  ebony,  or  even  of  saddle  leather;  but  all 
their  foreheads  bulged  out  in  the  same  way,  all 
their  noses  were  short  and  flat,  all  their  chins  re 
ceded.  On  their  breasts  and  arms  were  charms  of 
crocodiles '  teeth  and  leopards '  claws,  to  keep  them 
safe  from  beasts,  rheumatism,  arrows,  pneumonia, 
snake  bite,  and  skin  diseases.  In  the  distended 
lobes  of  their  ears  were  stuffed  cigarettes,  horn 
snuffboxes,  or  flowers  from  the  port  town. 

They  were  followed  by  the  camp  servants  in 
long,  white  robes,  Beira-boys  and  Swahilis,  driv 
ing  before  them  a  little  flock  of  sheep.  Parr,  at 
the  head  of  another  squad  of  askaris,  brought  up 

279 


SACRIFICE 

the  rear,  riding  a  Muscat  donkey.  He  raised  his 
head,  and  his  withered  mouth,  emerging  from  the 
shadow  of  his  helmet,  showed  a  melancholy  smile. 

He  was  drinking  in  the  smell  of  Africa,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  song  of  the  safari. 

At  times  the  song  died  down  into  a  hum.  But 
soon  a  quavering  falsetto  was  heard  formulating 
a  new  motive,  expressing  a  new  thought.  Other 
voices  joined  the  leader's;  a  minor  refrain  swept 
up  and  down  the  line;  and  abruptly  the  climax 
swelled  out  in  a  diapason  descending  far  into  the 
bass.  So  that  every  one  could  sing,  the  improvisor 
had  phrased  his  thoughts  in  Swahili,  the  inter 
tribal  language  of  Africa.  He  sang  of  the  Bibi 
from  afar,  her  skin  like  a  bowl  of  milk,  who  was 
traveling  as  a  bride  to  Fort  Pero  d'Anhaya. 

"She  is  rich.  She  is  the  daughter  of  a  sultan. 
She  is  ill,  but  she  will  be  well.  She  is  sad,  but  she 
will  be  happy.  "We  shall  eat  much  meat  at  her 
wedding. ' ' 

The  deep  chorus  rolled  out  to  a  banging  of  sticks 
on  the  sides  of  the  balanced  boxes. 

"Wah!  This  Bibi  is  rich!  We  shall  eat  much 
meat  at  her  wedding ! ' ' 

"They  sing  of  you,"  said  Hamoud,  turning  his 
limpid  eyes  toward  her  face  which  was  veiled  by 
swaying  fringes  of  the  awning.  She  unclenched 
her  fists ;  her  body  slowly  relaxed ;  and  a  look  of 
incredulity  appeared  in  her  eyes,  as  she  returned 
from  afar  to  this  oscillating  world  of  steamy  heat. 

280 


SACRIFICE 

throbbing  with  aboriginal  song,  impregnated  with 
the  smell  of  putrefying  foliage  and  of  sweat. 
From  under  the  feet  of  the  machilla  carriers  a 
cloud  of  mauve  butterflies  rose  like  flowers  to 
strew  themselves  over  her  soft  body.  It  was  as  if 
the  machilla  had  suddenly  become  a  bier. 

"God  forbid  it!"  Hamoud  muttered,  averting 
his  face  from  that  sign. 

He  wore  a  tight  turban  of  many  colored  stripes 
cocked  up  over  one  ear ;  he  had  bared  his  legs,  and 
bound  sandals  on  his  small  feet;  and  round  his 
waist,  over  the  sash  that  held  his  dagger,  he  had 
fastened  a  web  belt  sustaining  a  bolstered  pistol. 
He  never  left  the  side  of  the  moving  machilla. 

They  soon  put  behind  them  the  mangroves  of 
the  coast.  They  passed  through  brakes  of  white- 
tipped  feathery  reeds,  beyond  which  expanded  for 
ests  whose  velvety  foliage  was  mingled  with  gray 
curtains  of  moss.  On  their  left  a  little  river  kept 
reappearing.  From  the  islands  of  marsh  grass 
that  floated  down  the  stream,  egrets  and  king 
fishers  flew  away.  On  sandbars  some  dingy,  log- 
like  shapes,  beginning  stealthily  to  move  toward 
the  water,  were  revealed  as  crocodiles. 

In  a  bend  of  the  river  cashew  trees  overshad 
owed  the  thatch  of  fishing  huts.  Beyond  fields  of 
lilies  one  made  out,  flitting  away,  sooty  wanderers 
clad  in  ragged  kilts  and  carrying  thin-bladed 
spears.  Then  marshes  spread  afar:  the  trans 
parent  stalks  of  papyrus  trembled  above  the  bluish 

281 


SACEIFICE 

pallor  of  lotuses.  As  the  declining  sun  poured  its 
gold  across  the  world,  the  air  over  the  marshes 
was  jeweled  from  a  great  rush  of  geese,  ducks, 
heron,  ibises,  and  storks. 

They  camped  on  the  clean,  white  sand  beside 
the  stream. 

The  luxury  that  had  always  been  her  atmos 
phere  still  clung  round  her  here,  taking  on  an 
Oriental  quality  from  this  host  of  unfettered 
slaves,  these  dusky  armed  guards,  these  scurry 
ing,  white-robed  servants  who,  in  the  light  of  the 
sunset,  composed  with  the  speed  of  enchantment 
her  habitation  for  the  night.  The  green  tent,  its 
fly  extended  like  an  awning,  awaited  her  entrance. 
The  floor  sheet  was  strewn  with  rugs ;  the  snowy 
camp  bed  was  made ;  her  toilet  case  stood  open  on 
the  folding  table.  The  tent  boys,  their  faces  ob 
sequiously  lowered,  were  pouring  hot  water  into 
the  canvas  tub. 

Bareheaded,  but  wrapped  in  a  tan  polo  coat,  she 
emerged  from  the  tent  to  find  the  dinner  table 
ready  under  the  fly.  They  offered  Jiors  d'ceuvres, 
a  jellied  soup,  a  curry,  fruit  tarts,  and  coffee. 
She  shook  her  head,  and  continued  to  stare  at  the 
candles  on  the  table.  Fluffy,  white  moths  were 
burning  themselves  in  the  flames. 

Parr  protested  that  she  must  eat.  In  this  cli 
mate  one  did  not  fast  with  impunity. 

"I  sha'n't  collapse,"  she  replied,  that  stony  look 
returning  to  her  face. 

282 


SACRIFICE 

Night  fell  like  the  abruptly  loosened  folds  of  a 
great  curtain.  The  air  became  vibrant  with  the 
shrilling  of  insects.  Fireflies  filled  the  darkness 
with  a  twinkling  mist,  so  that  the  immense  spangle 
of  the  purple  sky  seemed  to  have  invaded  the  pur 
ple  ambiguities  of  earth.  But  along  the  river  bank 
shone  the  fires  of  the  safari — points  of  flame  that 
outlined,  like  a  binding  of  copper  wire,  the  silhou 
ettes  of  squatting  men,  or  turned  a  half-inchoate 
face  to  molten  bronze,  or  illuminated,  against  the 
lustrous  blackness  of  the  water,  the  fragment  of  a 
muscular  back,  the  crook  of  an  arm,  a  stare  of  eye 
balls,  a  display  of  teeth  that  seemed  to  be  swim 
ming  there  unrelated  to  a  head. 

The  babble  of  the  camp — a  continuous  chatter 
ing,  crooning,  and  guffawing,  blended  with  the  in 
dignant  cries  of  monkeys.  It  was,  she  thought,  all 
one  threnody  of  purely  natural  creatures,  of  which 
one  species,  by  some  accident  of  structure  and  un 
planned  immunity,  had  enlarged  its  powers  of 
experiment  and  imitation  to  this  point  of  triumph 
— the  kindling  of  fires,  the  eating  of  cooked  food, 
the  gradually  enhanced  capacity  for  suffering. 

"Are  you  religious,  Parr?"  she  asked  the  little 
man  who  sat  huddled  in  a  faded  ulster,  sucking  at 
a  cold  pipe.  What  she  meant  was,  "Do  you  be 
lieve,  poor  traveler,  that  you  have  a  soul — some 
spark  that  these  black  savages  share  with  you  per 
haps,  but  that  those  chattering  monkeys  lack?" 

283 


SACRIFICE 

His  pinched,  gray  countenance  took  on  a  timid 
look. 

"I  hope  so,  ma'am,'*  he  stammered,  and  tried  to 
assume  an  expression  of  befitting  dignity. 

"So  you  can  pray  without  laughing  at  your 
self?"  * 

Her  cold  voice  was  replete  with  the  bitterness  of 
those  who  have  got  from  suffering  nothing  except 
rancor,  as  if  at  some  vast  hoax. 

Parr  was  frightened  by  this  glimpse  into  her 
disillusionment ;  and  prayer,  which  he  himself  had 
abandoned  in  his  childhood,  seemed  suddenly 
worthy  of  his  timid  championship.  He  mumbled 
something  about  faith;  he  had,  it  appeared,  seen 
some  of  its  achievements.  He  recalled  the  faith 
of  strong  men,  which  had  accomplished  prodigies ; 
the  confidence  of  youth 

"And  when  one  is  old  and  weak!  So  it  is  all  a 
physical  phenomenon  ? ' ' 

When  she  had  slowly  and  relentlessly  flung  this 
retort  at  him,  for  want  of  a  better  object  for  her 
scorn,  she  turned  her  head  away.  Her  eyes  fell 
upon  Hamoud  who,  sitting  on  his  heels  near  her 
chair,  was  watching  her  face  by  the  light  of  the 
talc-sided  lanterns  that  dangled  from  the  tent-fly. 
But  Parr,  not  utterly  crushed,  proffered  faintly 
that  he  knew  he  could  not  argue  with  the  likes  of 
her,  being  without  education,  having  taken  life  as 
it  came,  mostly  obeying  orders 

"Like  Hamoud, "  she  commented.  "Hamoud 
284 


SACRIFICE 

has  taken  life  as  it  came,  obeying  the  orders  of 
fate.  What  is  your  word  for  resignation,  Ha- 
moud?  The  word  that  brought  you  across  the 
ocean  into  Mr.  Verne's  service,  and  then  back 
across  the  ocean  into  this  place?" 

"Mektoub,"  he  vouchsafed,  after  lowering  his 
eyes  so  that  she  should  not  see  the  flames  in  them. 
4 'And  why  not,  since  none  can  hope  to  escape  his 
destiny?  We — this  whole  safari — are  here  in  the 
palm  of  God's  hand.  None  knows  what  God  has 
prepared  for  us ;  yet  every  footprint  that  we  make 
has  been  marked  before  our  feet." 

On  these  words,  his  handsome,  lightly  bearded 
visage  was  touched  with  a  look  of  beatitude,  as 
though  speaking  in  his  sleep  he  was  dreaming  of 
some  unrevealed  delight. 

"Then  our  will  is  nothing?" 

"Ah,  if  our  will  is  victorious  it  is  the  will  of 
God." 

As  she  made  no  response,  and  since  the  hour 
called  "Isheh"  was  approaching,  he  rose  and  de 
parted  to  pray. 

"Will!"  she  thought.  "No,  there  is  nothing 
else.  Will  is  the  Thing-in-Itself . " 

The  tent  curtain  fell  behind  her.  She  heard 
Parr's  voice  call  out  the  command  for  silence.  His 
words  were  taken  up  by  the  askaris  on  guard. 
The  camp  noises  ceased ;  one  heard  only  the  scold 
ing  of  the  monkeys,  the  drumming  of  partridges, 

285 


SACRIFICE 

and  the  far-off  roar  of  a  lion  that  had  eaten  his 
fill.  The  earth  seemed  to  tremble  slightly  from 
that  distant  sound. 

She  lay  on  her  bed,  under  the  muslin  mosquito 
net  through  which  strained  the  pearly  gleam 
of  a  lantern.  Once  more  it  was  all  an  illusion 
which  must  be  allowed  to  endure  till  reality  could 
be  gained.  For  Lilla,  the  only  reality  was  com 
prised  at  this  moment  into  one  more  meeting  with 
him,  in  the  sight  of  his  living  face,  in  the  sound 
of  his  voice  pronouncing  words  of  forgiveness,  of 
love,  perhaps  even  of  remorse.  Should  she  reach 
him  too  late  for  that — find  this  longing  also  part 
of  the  illusion?  The  prophesy  of  Anna  Zanidov 
had  gained  a  still  greater  power  from  those  deep 
forests,  those  sudden  apparitions  in  vaporous 
clearings  of  men  armed  with  gleaming  spears,  and 
now  from  the  greenish  infiltration  of  the  moon- 
light. 

Another  lion  roared  in  the  depths  of  the  night. 

"Why  should  one  fear  even  these  strange  forms 
of  death  ?  What  has  my  life  been  that  I  should  find 
it  precious?  What  does  anything  matter  except 
one  hour  with  him?  I  really  ask  only  a  moment. 
No,  all  that  I  fear  is  death  before  I  find  him,  be 
fore  I've  won  from  him  a  last  kiss  of  understand 
ing  and  pardon.  Will !  That  shall  be  my  strength 
and  my  immunity  all  the  wray ! ' ' 

At  last  she  dozed,  to  dream  that  Hamoud  had 
confronted  a  lion  just  as  the  beast  was  about  to 

286 


SACRIFICE 

pounce  upon  Madame  Zanidov,  who,  wearing  the 
dress  of  oxidized  silver  barbarically  painted, 
crouched  in  a  moonlit  clearing.  "No,  Hamoud, 
let  him  have  her!"  Hamoud,  with  a  smile,  stood 
aside.  Then  she  saw  Lawrence  approaching,  his 
face  and  body  wrapped  in  a  white  cloth.  "Too 
late,"  he  uttered,  and  was  unveiling  his  face  when 
she  sat  up  in  bed  with  a  scream. 

Instantly  the  curtain  let  in  a  flash  of  moonlight. 
Hamoud  stood  at  the  bedside,  his  hand  on  the  hilt 
of  his  dagger.  From  behind  him  entered  the  voices 
of  the  guards  calling  out  to  one  another.  Then  a 
murmur  of  other  voices  broke  like  a  wave. 

"There  is  nothing  here,"  Hamoud  said  gently, 
when  he  had  looked  round  the  tent.  As  she  made 
no  reply,  he  was  about  to  withdraw ;  but,  kneeling 
down,  instead,  he  raised  the  weighted  hem  of  the 
mosquito  net,  to  take  her  hand  and  press  it  to  his 
brow. 

"Sleep  always  without  fear.  Till  Hamoud  is 
dead  no  harm  shall  come  to  you." 

"And  dreams?"  she  moaned,  letting  her  hand 
go  limp  in  his  frozen  grasp.  "Oh,  Hamoud,  and 
dreams  ? '  ' 

In  the  pearly  light,  beneath  the  cloudy  net,  in 
the  air  that  was  fragrant  with  the  odors  of  soap 
and  cologne,  her  upturned  countenance  and  swell 
ing  throat  gave  forth  a  gleam  as  if  of  flesh  trans 
figured  by  love  instead  of  grief.  He  felt  himself 
falling  through  space  into  a  bottomless  anguish. 

287 


SACEIFICE 

He  clutched  at  the  thought,  "Yet  who  knows  His 
designs?"  and  hung  in  that  void  alive,  his  secret 
still  locked  in  his  breast,  the  delicious  pain  of  her 
daily  condescension  still  assured  to  him. 

"Ah,  if  you  were  of  my  faith  you  would  have 
heard  that  life  is  all  a  dream,  that  there  is  no 
reality  except  paradise  and  hell." 

He  rose,  and  stole  away  from  paradise  to  hell. 


CHAPTER  LVI 

IN  the  dawn  Parr  hobbled  down  the  line  of 
yawning  porters,  checking  the  reapportionment  of 
burdens.  The  machilla  men,  still  nibbling  at 
chunks  of  cold  porridge,  approached  with  the  ham 
mock  swinging  from  their  shoulders. 

The  safari  resumed  its  march. 

Its  course  was  northwest,  through  jungles  of 
bamboo,  round  the  rims  of  marshes,  past  forests 
filmed  with  the  blue  and  yellow  of  convolvulus. 
The  mountains  remained  apparently  as  far  away 
as  ever,  now  indistinct  behind  the  heat  mist  of  the 
lowlands,  now  disappearing  beyond  the  rainstorms 
that  swept  across  the  plateaux  like  the  robes  of 
colossal  gods. 

The  safari  passed  leopard  traps,  graves  decked 
with  broken  pottery  and  little  banners  of  rags, 
then,  circling  fields  of  maize,  entered  a  village. 
The  huts  stood  in  a  ring  inside  a  rude  stockade. 
The  village  headman  advanced,  bending  forward 
from  the  waist  and  scraping  first  one  foot  and 
then  the  other.  He  made  obeisance  before  the 
machilla,  in  which  men  of  his  own  kind  bore  up  a 
delicate,  pale  prodigy,  an  incredible  creature  from 
another  aeon  or  planet. 

289 


SACRIFICE 

He  was  a  wizened,  old  man  with  shreds  of  white 
wool  on  his  chin.  His  eyeballs  were  tinctured  with 
yellow.  His  right  shoulder  was  a  mass  of  long- 
healed  scars  from  the  claws  and  teeth  of  some 
beast.  Behind  him,  against  a  solid  wall  of  his 
people,  young  girls  with  shaved  heads,  awe- 
stricken,  held  gourds  of  beer  as  pink  as  coral  and 
as  thick  as  gruel. 

The  village  headman  revealed  the  news  of  the 
wilds,  which  had  been  transmitted  from  tribe  to 
tribe  by  native  travelers,  or  by  the  far-carrying 
beat  of  wooden  gongs.  A  safari,  passing  to  the 
north,  had  penetrated  the  land  of  the  Mambava. 
In  that  safari  there  were  two  white  men  and  many 
askaris.  They  had  now  journeyed  through  the 
forests  of  the  people  of  Muene-Motapa.  They 
were  in  the  granite  gorges  of  the  waterfalls. 

He  pointed  toward  where  the  floating  mountains 
rose  in  a  peak  that  was  lightly  silvered  with 
snow. 

Parr,  on  the  Muscat  donkey,  looking  more  hag 
gard  than  ever  in  the  sunshine,  demanded: 

"Is  it  the  white  man  who  is  called  the  Bwana 
Bangana?" 

That  was  the  name  that  had  accompanied  the 
news. 

The  safari  marched  faster  than  before,  toward 
the  exalted  masses  that  trembled  behind  the  heat. 
They  emerged  upon  rolling  plains  remotely  dotted 
with  herds  of  zebras  and  antelope.  In  the  blind- 

290 


SACRIFICE 

ing  sky  they  saw  kites,  buzzards,  and  crows,  ris 
ing  from  the  carcasses  that  had  been  left  half 
devoured  by  noctambulant  beasts  of  prey.  At 
nightfall  the  lightning  flashed  above  the  mountains 
in  yellow  sheets  or  rosy  zigzags.  Thunder  rolled 
out  across  the  plain  in  majestic  detonations. 

Lilla,  watching  the  storm  from  the  doorway  of 
her  tent,  told  herself  that  he,  too,  must  hear  these 
sounds;  that  she  had  come  near  enough  to  share 
with  him  at  any  rate  this  sensation — unless  her 
dread  had  already  been  realized,  and  he  had  sunk 
into  a  sleep  from  which  even  such  noises  could  not 
wake  him. ' 

Hamoud  appeared  at  her  side.  He  quoted  from 
the  Uncreated  Book: 

"He  showeth  you  the  lightning,  a  source  of  awe 
and  hope." 

Her  heart  swelled;  she  turned  to  that  fervent, 
handsome  face  beneath  the  turban  a  look  of  pe 
culiar  tenderness  like  a  sword  thrust,  and  re 
sponded  in  liquid  tones : 

"What  should  I  have  done  without  you?" 


CHAPTER  LVII 

LAWRENCE  TECK  was  not  in  the  gorges  of  the 
waterfalls. 

While  marching  in  through  the  lowlands  he  had 
been  seized  with  a  fever  that  he  had  failed  to 
shake  off  on  the  plateaux.  Every  day  he  had 
grown  a  little  worse,  indeed,  till  finally  the  choice 
had  seemed  to  lie  between  resignation  of  his  work 
and  serious  illness.  Turning  back  toward  the 
coast,  he  had  now  regained  the  forests  of  the  Mam- 
bava.  Here,  in  his  second  night's  camp,  he  had 
suffered  a  collapse. 

He  lay  abed  in  his  tent.  On  the  waterproof 
floor  cloth  squatted  a  Mambava  warrior,  a  mes 
senger  from  King  Meune-Motapa. 

''Give  the  word,  Bangana.  Give  the  word. 
Brother  of  the  King.  We  will  carry  you  to  the 
King's  town  on  a  litter  as  soft  as  the  clouds.  The 
wizards  shall  work  their  charms  to  make  you  well. 
The  Dances  of  the  Moon  are  about  to  begin :  it  is 
the  time  of  answered  prayers.  Your  medicines 
have  failed;  now  try  ours.  One  word,  Bangana! 
Gladden  the  heart  of  the  King ! ' ' 

The  messenger's  almost  Semitic  visage,  up- 
292 


SACRIFICE 

turned  in  the  lamplight,  was  smeared  with  ambas 
sadorial  signs  in  yellow  paint.  On  his  head  he 
wore  a  bonnet  of  marabout  feathers  that  floated 
like  a  tiara  of  gossamer;  his  arms  and  legs  were 
armored  with  copper  bangles.  In  his  voice  there 
throbbed  a  tenderness  and  pathos,  as  if  he  were 
making  vocal  the  very  essence  of  the  king's  desire. 
His  eyes  even  swam  in  moisture,  as  he  repeated 
the  conjuration: 

1 ' Speak!    Speak  the  word!" 

Lawrence  Teck  returned : 

"Say  this  to  Muene-Motapa.  The  medicine  that 
might  cure  me  is  far  beyond  the  sea.  I  thought 
I  might  do  without  it ;  but  see  what  the  lack  of  it 
has  brought  me  to.  A  little  chill,  a  headache — the 
strong  man  rejoicing  in  the  world  shakes  his  shoul 
ders  and  they  are  gone.  But  death  in  one  of  its 
multitude  of  forms  stands  at  the  door  of  the  heart 
that  has  ceased  to  take  pleasure  in  life." 

His  voice  was  feeble.  His  bearded  face,  bend 
ing  forward  under  the  net,  was  blank  from  ex 
haustion  and  unnaturally  flushed.  His  teeth 
clashed  together,  as  he  concluded: 

"There  is  no  medicine  in  this  land  to  cure  this 
sickness." 

The  messenger  groaned,  and  said  compassion 
ately  : 

"It  is  sad  to  see  the  great  deserted  by  their 
gods.  Yet  our  gods  remain!"  He  pressed  his 
palms  on  the  floor  sheet  and  leaned  forward,  his 

293 


SACRIFICE 

filmy  headdress  drifting  over  his  glittering  eyes. 
"  Surely,  Bangana,  now  is  the  time  to  renounce 
the  old,  to  embrace  the  true !  To  cast  the  spear  of 
scorn  and  come  in  behind  our  shields  till  you  are 
strong  again.  We  will  make  you  forget!  Give 
yourself  up  but  once  to  our  ancient  mysteries! 
Have  you  forgotten  the  Dances  of  the  Moon?" 

There  rose  before  Lawrence  Teck  a  vision  of  an 
inferno  deep  in  these  forests,  red  from  great  fires 
that  devoured  the  moonlight.  The  scene  was  peo 
pled  by  thousands  of  beings  too  dreadful,  surely, 
in  their  appearance  and  actions,  to  be  human — be 
ings  that  danced  in  regiments  with  foaming  lips, 
that  howled  out  their  frenzy  amid  the  roar  of 
drums,  that  fell  right  and  left,  convulsed,  insane, 
cataleptic,  while  the  witch  doctors,  impassive  in 
their  masks,  emerged  through  the  smoke  of  the 
fires  with  bloody  hands.  It  was  the  reign  of  na 
ture  in  its  densest  stronghold;  it  was  that  which 
hovers  like  an  echo  over  the  suave,  ordered  land 
scapes  of  civilization ;  it  was  the  seductive  horror 
that  invades  the  modern  brain  in  dreams,  or  in 
some  moment  of  utter  bitterness  and  despair. 

For  a  moment  he  still  leaned  forward,  peering 
into  those  glittering,  dark  eyes,  though  what  he 
saw  was  something  beyond  that  face — the  destruc 
tion  of  all  the  toil  of  fifty  thousand  years,  the  sui 
cide  of  a  soul.  With  a  shudder  he  lay  back  upon 
the  bed. 

"Return  to  the  King." 
294 


SACRIFICE 

For  five  minutes  the  messenger  sat  motionless ; 
but  Lawrence  Teck  did  not  speak  again.  Rising 
at  last,  in  a  fluff  of  his  marabout  plumes,  he  armed 
himself  with  his  spear  and  his  oval  shield  cov 
ered  with  an  heraldic  design. 

' '  The  King  will  weep, ' '  he  said.  * '  And  the  little 
sisters  of  the  King,  and  all  those  who  loved  you, 
oh,  dead  man.'* 

He  raised  the  curtain,  and  stalked  away  through 
the  camp,  clashing  superbly  between  the  fires, 
while  the  clustered  askaris  and  porters  regarded 
him  dismally. 

A  white  man  in  a  fleece-lined  coat,  who  had  been 
Baiting  in  the  open  for  the  messenger  to  depart, 
entered  the  tent  and  sat  down  beside  the  bed. 

He  was  Cornelius  Rysbroek. 

"Shall  you  try  to  march  to-morrow?" 

Lawrence  Teck  did  not  reply.  There  was  no 
strength  in  him  even  to  move  his  hand,  after  that 
gesture  with  which  he  had  put  from  him,  though 
half  lost  in  fever,  the  ultimate  temptation.  Cor 
nelius  Rysbroek,  believing  that  he  saw  here  defeat 
instead  of  victory,  smiled. 

In  his  eyes  appeared,  perfected,  the  light  that 
had  made  them  exceptional  for  years,  a  flash  from 
that  psychical  lake  of  fire  and  brimstone  in  which 
his  heart  had  so  long  been  burning  up.  For  the 
tables  were  turned  at  last:  the  weak  one,  the  in 
ferior,  had  become  the  stronger,  the  better.  A 
thousand  wounds  seemed  to  heal  themselves  in  him 

295 


SACRIFICE 

as  he  contemplated  the  prostration  of  the  enemy 
whom  he  had  hated,  just  from  premonition,  even 
before  his  appearance.  There  was  true  madness  in 
that  look,  arising  from  the  long  privation,  the  in 
terminable  jealousy,  the  consequent  monomania 
of  revenge.  "He  will  die,"  he  reflected,  gloating 
with  half-shut  eyes,  his  face,  that  had  once  been 
puerile,  now  dignified  by  triumph.  * '  He  will  never 
leave  this  forest,"  he  sang  to  himself,  curling  up 
his  mouse-colored  mustaches  as  if  at  a  mirror  be 
fore  sallying  out  to  some  pleasure  in  which  there 
was  no  sting.  But  suddenly  he  remembered  that 
this  prostrate  rival  was  still  his  conqueror,  had 
won  what  he  had  not  been  able  to  win,  would  re 
call,  no  doubt,  in  his  last  moment  of  consciousness, 
that  love  in  all  its  details. 

Out  of  the  silent  night  the  spirit  of  Africa  crept 
into  the  dim  tent,  completing  his  madness. 

To  one  of  the  little  fires  came  softly  Lawrence 
Teck's  tent  boy,  a  turbaned  Persian,  lemon-hued, 
with  the  beak  of  a  parrot  and  the  mouth  of  a 
cruel  woman.  He  sat  down  close  beside  a  Swahili 
gun  bearer,  who  was  frying  a  mess  of  white  ants. 

"Our  Bwana  has  fallen  asleep,"  he  uttered  in  a 
voice  that  would  have  been  inaudible  to  white  men. 
"The  other  Bwana  is  sitting  by  the  bed."  He 
waited  till  the  ants  were  cooked  to  a  turn,  then 
murmured,  in  a  tone  like  aeolian  harp  strings  ca 
ressed  by  the  faintest  zephyr,  "If  our  Bwana  does 
not  die  of  the  fever  the  other  Bwana  will  kill  him. ' ' 

296 


SACRIFICE 

The  brown  Swahili,  his  pan  half  raised,  turned 
his  face  which  seemed  to  have  been  smashed  flat, 
and  gave  the  speaker  a  slow,  fierce  look  of  inquiry. 
The  Persian  breathed: 

"With  our  Bwana's  own  pistol.  As  if  he  had 
killed  himself.  I  peeped  through  the  curtain.  The 
pistol  was  hanging  from  the  tent-pole.  When  he 
looked  at  it,  and  then  at  our  Bwana,  I  read  every 
thing  in  his  mind.  But  if  this  also  is  the  will  of 
God  it  will  not  happen  until  some  hour  when  the 
camp  is  still — when  we  are  all  asleep. " 


CHAPTER 


THE  safari  that  was  seeking  him  marched  and 
camped,  marched  and  camped,  marched  and 
camped. 

Every  afternoon  the  northeastern  monsoon 
wafted  in  its  sticky  moisture,  releasing  in  the  jun 
gles  the  nauseating  sweetness  of  incredible  flowers. 
Smoky-brown  flies  were  seen  on  the  necks  of  the 
sheep.  The  beasts  began  to  sicken  and  die.  The 
porters  ate  fresh  meat. 

But  the  porters  no  longer  sang.  The  Wasena, 
who  bore  the  hammock,  muttered  to  one  another 
dolefully  as  they  shuffled  along.  All  knew  by  this 
time  that  they  were  not  headed  for  Fort  Pero 
d'Anhaya.  Avoiding  that  last  outpost  of  civili 
zation,  they  were  approaching  the  country  of  the 
Mambava,  which  lay  behind  the  steamy  sunshine, 
below  the  blue  and  lavender  battlements  of  gran 
ite,  in  the  uplands  covered  with  forests. 

The  askaris  alone,  the  lean,  khaki-clad  Somalis, 
remained  indifferent  to  this  atmosphere  of  dis 
quiet  that  was  more  debilitating  to  the  porters 
than  the  fever-laden  mists.  For  these  fierce,  rest 
less  men  from  the  northern  deserts  were  of  a  breed 

298 


SACRIFICE 

that  found  its  true  contentment  in  danger  and 
violence.  They  were  cheered,  perhaps,  by  the  pos 
sibility  of  bloodshed,  sustained  by  the  automatism 
resulting  from  their  faith,  and,  despite  their  dis 
dain  of  women,  inspired  by  their  admiration  of 
this  frail  personage  who  was  always  urging  more 
speed  toward  the  fabulous  regions  of  peril. 

As  for  her,  she  no  longer  saw  anything  except 
that  deep  green  zone  which  quivered  behind  the 
heat. 

"I  shall  find  him  not  in  the  gorges,  but  in  those 
forests." 

For  the  scene  of  Anna  Zanidov's  prophecy  was 
laid  in  a  forest. 

She  lay  in  the  machilla  like  a  tightly  drawn  bow. 
Her  skin,  now  ashen,  now  bright  from  a  touch  of 
fever,  stretched  over  a  visage  of  apparently  new 
contours:  round  her  cheekbones  and  jaws  were 
suggestions  of  previously  unsuspected  strength. 
Her  tender  lips  had  assumed  an  almost  cruel  as 
pect  ;  her  sunken  eyes,  growing  ever  larger  in  her 
diminishing  face,  were  harder  than  gems.  She 
was  the  personification  of  will. 

And  Parr,  sagging,  shivering,  softly  groaning 
on  the  back  of  the  Muscat  donkey,  and  Hamoud, 
ever  pacing  beside  her,  and  the  askaris  with  their 
rifle  barrels  glinting  against  their  fezzes,  and  the 
porters  and  the  camp  boys,  were  only  the  instru 
ment  that  her  will  had  welded  together.  They 
were  wraiths  obediently  advancing  her  dream  of 

299 


SACRIFICE 

one  fleeting  moment  of  triumph  over  fate.  They 
were  nothing,  since  she  had  summoned  them  out 
of  the  void  of  this  world  by  an  imperious  cry. 
They  were  everything ;  for  without  them  her  dream 
would  fade. 

Sometimes  the  green  zone  of  the  uplands  was 
lost  in  a  blur  not  of  heat,  but  of  fever.  Sharp 
pains  stabbed  her  temples,  and,  when  the  dream 
became  distinct  again,  she  saw  black  men  walking 
like  giants,  their  heads  in  the  white-hot  sky.  But 
just  as  she  had  conquered  fear,  so,  by  a  supreme 
resolution,  she  conquered  her  vertigo,  the  burn 
ing  of  her  emaciated  limbs,  the  quaking  of  her 
body  which  a  moment  before  had  been  bathed  in 
moisture.  At  sunset  she  descended  from  the  ma- 
chilla  to  give  Hamoud  a  look  of  astonishment, 
while  replying: 

"No,  I  am  well." 

Yet  she  cast  a  look  of  dread  at  the  rising  tent, 
thinking  of  the  hours  of  sleeplessness,  of  appalling 
thoughts  on  the  borderline  between  nightmares  and 
flashes  of  fever. 

Now  and  then,  as  she  escaped  shivering  from  the 
hot  bath,  she  lost  hold  of  her  new  strength. 

"If  you  knew!"  she  whimpered. 

The  lost,  safe  life  rose  before  her.  She  saw 
against  the  green  tent  walls  the  painting  by  Bron- 
zino,  the  jeweled  perspective  of  Fifth  Avenue  at 
night,  Fanny  Brassfield's  necklace  sparkling  in 
the  blaze  of  the  opera  house.  The  music  of 

300 


SACRIFICE 

waltzes  mingled  with  the  strains  of  David's  tone 
poem;  and  she  smelled  at  the  same  time  the  tan- 
bark  of  the  horse  show,  the  pastilles  at  Bran- 
tome's,  and  the  flowers  surrounding  the  marble 
warrior  and  the  marble  nymph.  She  was  seized 
with  panic,  on  realizing  the  remoteness  of  se 
curity. 

' '  Where  am  I  ?    Africa !    But  why  f ' ' 

She  stood  motionless,  aghast  at  her  inability  to 
remember  why  she  was  here. 

Hamoud's  voice  came  to  her  from  beyond  the 
curtain : 

' '  There  is  going  to  be  a  shauri,  a  talk  with  these 
porters  of  yours." 

"Ah,  my  God!    What  is  it  now?" 

Hamoud  cast  back  at  her  through  the  curtain, 
in  a  tone  of  bitterness : 

"Rebellion." 

She  wrapped  herself  in  her  robe  and  cowered 
on  the  bed. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  Hamoud's  voice  was 
heard  again : 

"Madam,  all  is  ready." 

She  emerged  victorious  once  more,  her  face 
stony,  her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes  as  cold  as  ice. 

On  each  side  of  her  tent  a  clump  of  askaris  stood 
leaning  on  their  rifles.  Over  against  her  chair 
the  porters  were  aligned  in  a  great  semicircle,  tribe 
by  tribe.  The  intervening  flames  of  a  camp  fire 
shone  richly  on  the  massed  bronze  bodies  and  the 

301 


SACRIFICE 

brutish  faces  that  had  turned,  for  once,  inexpres 
sive.  As  Lilla  sat  down  in  her  chair,  a  low  mur 
mur  passed  through  their  ranks  and  lost  itself  in 
the  gilded  fronds  of  palm  trees  that  hung  stiffly, 
like  the  scenery  of  a  theater,  above  this  spec 
tacle. 

Amid  the  shrilling  of  crickets  a  Wasena,  the 
leader  of  the  machilla  bearers,  spoke  first.  He 
was  a  thin  mulatto  with  filed  teeth;  the  sores  on 
his  shoulders  were  smeared  with  an  ointment  made 
of  charcoal  and  oil.  His  voice  rose  explosively,  in 
a  sort  of  childish  defiance,  persisted  for  a  long 
while,  then  suddenly  died  away.  One  heard  from 
the  depths  of  the  jungle  the  tittering  of  a  hyena. 

An  askari  spat  to  the  left  contemptuously. 

The  leader  of  the  porters  from  Tete  sprang  for 
ward  with  a  cry  of  exasperation.  For  this  occa 
sion  he  had  bound  round  his  waist  the  pelt  of  one 
of  the  slaughtered  sheep,  and  had  made  a  head 
dress  of  draggled  turaco  feathers.  He  waved  his 
sinewy  arms,  crouched,  postured,  tossed  back  his 
head.  His  oration  was  less  coherent  than  the  Wa 
sena  's,  but  more  dramatic. 

"The  first  moon  since  the  rains!  The  season 
when  the  Mambava  hold  their  great  dances!  It 
is  now  that  their  forest  will  be  full  of  music,  while 
their  warriors  gather  in  the  place  that  they  know 
of,  to  dance  to  the  moon.  We  will  not  enter  the 
country  of  the  Mambava  while  they  dance  to  the 
moon!" 

302 


SACRIFICE 

A  hoarse  outcry  rose  toward  the  multitude  of 
stars : 

"We  will  not  enter  the  country  of  the  Mambava 
when  they  dance  to  the  moon!" 

The  askaris,  their  fezzes  cocked  jauntily,  im 
patiently  shuffled  their  sandals  of  giraffe  hide,  and 
hitched  up  their  belts  in  which  were  thrust  broad- 
bladed  Somali  knives. 

"They  are  rabbits,"  the  askaris  affirmed. 
* '  Even  this  lady  shames  them.  They  are  less  than 
women."  They  turned  their  fierce  eyes  toward 
Lilla,  calling  out  to  her,  "Here  we  stand,  Ya 
Bibi!"  There  was  a  savage  insinuation  in  that 
cry. 

In  order  to  respond,  Parr  sat  down  in  a  chair, 
the  immemorial  symbol  of  authority.  He  spoke 
in  Swahili.  After  each  sentence  he  paused,  so 
that  his  words  might  be  translated  by  the  head 
men  of  the  porters  into  their  tribal  dialects.  His 
voice  rose  faintly,  almost  ineffectually  contending 
against  the  sounds  of  the  insects.  He  looked  very 
small  and  ghastly  in  the  firelight ;  he  was  sick  to 
his  bones,  feeling  just  as  he  had  felt  before  the 
black-water  fever.  The  great  semicircle  of  hos 
tile  eyes  perceived  all  his  weakness.  In  the  opin 
ion  of  his  antagonists  his  face  bore  the  seal  of 
death.  This  representative  of  the  white-skinned 
super-race  was  revealed  as  weaker  than  they — 
no  trace  of  the  white  man 's  conquering  will  was  to 

303 


SACRIFICE 

be  discerned  in  his  feeble  countenance.  Why  lis 
ten  any  more  ? 

Their  leaders  no  longer  troubled  to  translate 
his  words. 

He  went  on,  however,  with  the  last  of  his 
strength  holding  fast  to  the  thought  of  paying  his 
debt  in  full. 

In  that  land,  he  declared,  none  would  dare  to 
hurt  the  friends  of  Muene-Motapa's  friend.  They 
should  return  telling  how  they  had  passed  un 
harmed,  even  honored,  through  the  country  of  the 
Mambava.  He  promised  them  double  pay — while 
groping  for  some  further  argument,  he  seemed  to 
be  sinking  in  upon  himself.  His  face  drooped  for 
ward. 

From  the  horde  of  porters  came  scattered 
shouts : 

' '  Enough !  The  shauri  is  over !  In  the  morning 
we  return!'* 

"What  do  they  say,  Hamoud?" 

"They  say  that  in  the  morning  they  will  return 
to  the  coast." 

She  sat  stunned. 

The  orator  from  Tete  moved  with  a  kind  of 
spasmodic  dancing  gait  toward  Parr.  Never  thus 
had  the  white  man's  genius  lain  prostrate  before 
him.  He  was  the  symbol  of  a  race  abruptly  ex 
alted  from  inferiority  to  dominance.  There  came 
over  him  a  frenzy  of  pride  and  malice ;  it  was  the 
realization  of  the  dreams  that  burn  the  brains  of 

304 


SACRIFICE 

all  the  dark  people  of  the  earth.  "Do  you  hear?" 
he  howled,  and  brandished  his  fists  as  though  about 
to  strike  that  lowered  head. 

An  askari  glided  forward  reversing  his  rifle. 
There  was  a  cracking  sound  as  the  gun  butt  struck 
the  orator  from  Tete  in  the  middle  of  the  fore 
head.  With  a  drowsy  look  the  smitten  man  sank 
down  as  gently  as  if  falling  into  a  mound  of 
feathers,  and  deliberately  composed  himself  in 
sleep,  his  brown  face  against  the  brown  earth. 

In  all  that  throng  there  was  suddenly  not  the 
slightest  movement,  and  no  sound  was  to  be  heard 
except  the  trill  of  the  insects. 

She  was  standing,  staring  from  the  prostrate 
body  to  the  mass  of  porters,  whose  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  victim  with  one  look,  of  mournful  awak 
ening.  Then  they  saw  her  whom  they  had  for 
gotten,  or,  in  their  transport,  considered  negligible. 
But  when  they  had  read  her  face  it  was  they  who 
were  frightened. 

"You!    You!    To  stop  me!" 

And  a  homicidal  gesture  completed  her  appear 
ance  of  fury. 

"Wallahi!"  the  askaris  called  out  to  one  an 
other.  ' '  She  has  given  the  order ! ' ' 

They  spread  out  to  right  and  left  with  a  clicking 
of  their  rifle  locks;  they  drove  the  porters  to 
gether,  close  to  the  fire.  A  soft  moan  arose  from 
the  huddled  crowd.  They  had  seen  the  whips  of 

305 


SACRIFICE 

hippopotamus  hide,  long  and  flexible,  translucent 
in  the  firelight  like  streams  of  amber. 

As  the  lash  described  a  flourish  above  the  first 
outstretched  back  she  turned  away  to  her  tent. 
Hamoud  was  before  her,  raising  the  curtain.  He 
said: 

"They  will  speak  no  more  about  the  coast  when 
we  are  through  with  them." 


CHAPTER  LIX 

AT  dawn  lie  came  to  tell  her  that  Parr  had  the 
black-water  fever. 

The  sick  man  was  unconscious  when  they  sent 
him  off,  in  the  machilla,  toward  Fort  Pero  d'An- 
haya,  with  three  of  the  askaris  and  fifteen  of  the 
porters.  They  soon  disappeared  into  a  jungle  of 
spear  grass,  above  which  the  sunrise  was  spread 
ing  its  bands  of  smoky  gold  and  rose.  The  chosen 
porters  forgot  their  lacerated  bodies;  a  song 
floated  back  from  them  to  those  who  must  still 
press  onward. 

"I  have  killed  him,  Hamoud." 

"Who  knows?  It  is  true  that  he  is  old  and  has 
had  this  fever  before.  But  we  do  not  need  him. 
Maybe  he  has  fulfilled  his  destiny.  And  we  have 
not."  In  the  glory  of  the  sunrise  he  turned  to 
meditate  over  her  thin,  tortured  face.  He  ob 
served,  with  a  lyrical  sadness,  "What  is  life?  A 
running  this  way  and  that  after  mirages.  A  thirst 
ing  for  sweet  wells  of  which  one  has  heard  in  a 
dream.  Does  one  ever  taste  those  waters?  Are 

307 


SACRIFICE 

they  sweet  or  bitter?    Perhaps  this  is  the  secret— 
that  to  taste  them  is  death. ' ' 

The  safari  marched  on.  She  rode  the  Muscat 
donkey,  which  was  dying  from  the  bites  of  tsetse 
files. 


CHAPTER  LX 

NEXT  morning  she  marched  afoot  in  the  blaze  of 
the  sun.  Trailing  thorns  pierced  her  ankles;  the 
stipa  shrubs  showered  her  with  little  barbs,  and 
from  another  bush  was  detached  an  invisible  pollen 
that  penetrated  her  clothing  and  burned  her  skin. 
At  the  noon  halt  they  made  a  hammock  of  tent 
cloth,  in  which  she  was  carried  all  the  afternoon 
by  four  porters.  At  nightfall  they  saw,  across 
a  valley,  the  edge  of  the  Mambava  forests,  the  tow 
ering  tree  trunks  banked  with  huge  thickets  and 
bound  together  by  nets  of  vines. 

They  camped  in  the  valley,  where  a  stream 
flowed  through  a  tangle  of  indigo  plants.  The 
warm  bath  steamed  in  her  tent ;  the  fresh  evening 
garments  were  laid  out ;  everything  was  the  same 
in  this  canvas  ark  that  proceeded  farther  and 
farther  into  the  wilds  with  its  atmosphere  of  rude 
luxury  intact.  When  she  emerged  from  the  tent, 
in  her  polo  coat  and  suede  mosquito  boots,  the 
table  glistened  with  its  china  and  glassware. 

She  sat  looking  at  the  black  forest. 

"He  is  there!" 

But  she  was  very  tired. 
309 


SACRIFICE 

'Ah,  to  lie  down,  grope  no  longer  for  her  will, 
drift  away  into  a  region  where  there  was  no  love 
or  remorse,  sleep  forever!  Why  should  she  feel 
like  this  with  the  goal  so  near  at  last,  unless  from 
a  premonition  that  all  her  efforts  were  useless? 

Never  before  had  this  land  and  its  phenomena 
appeared  so  cruel,  so  perfectly  the  manifestation 
of  a  superhuman  force  that  clothed  its  malignancy 
in  a  primordial  splendor.  Here,  she  reflected,  was 
the  quintessence  of  earthly  beauty  inextricable 
from  the  quintessence  of  horror;  here  was  the 
source  of  all  that  she  had  trusted  elsewhere  in 
countless  perfidious  disguises  and  refinements. 

Poisonous  in  some  subtle  element  behind  its 
visible  vapors,  it  corrupted  not  only  the  flesh,  but 
also  the  souls  that  had  emerged  elsewhere  into 
forms  of  affection  and  compassion.  Two  nights 
ago  even  she  had  greeted  the  crack  of  the  whips 
with  the  furious  thought,  "Strike  again !" — and 
now  there  stole  into  her  brain,  together  with  the 
light  hallucinations  of  fever,  a  hatred  of  these 
cringing  black  men  who  for  a  moment  had  dared 
to  stand  before  her  as  antagonists.  The  evening 
breeze  brought  to  her,  from  the  porters '  fires,  the 
odor  of  savage  bodies  that  had  labored  and  been 
beaten  for  the  cause  of  love ;  and  her  disgust  was 
tinctured  with  the  fierce  intolerance  of  all  those 
impressionable  beings  from  what  is  called  civili 
zation,  whom  Africa  had  debased — or  else,  made 
"natural"  again. 

310 


SACRIFICE 

Through  the  buzz  of  insects  there  came  from 
the  forest,  gradually  blending  over  wide  distances, 
a  gentle  throbbing.  The  porters  lifted  their  round 
heads  beyond  the  fires.  The  sharp  profiles  of  the 
askaris  were  motionless.  A  wail  floated  over  the 
camp: 

"The  drums  of  the  Mambava!" 

The  throbbing  died  away.  But  soon  it  began 
again  in  the  north,  then  in  the  south,  and  swelled 
to  a  continuous  rumbling. 

On  the  edge  of  the  sky  the  moon  appeared,  blood 
red,  nearly  full. 

There  was  a  rush  of  feet,  a  scuffle  in  the  bushes, 
and  two  askaris  advanced  into  the  firelight,  drag 
ging  between  them  a  creature  that  they  seemed  to 
have  plucked  out  of  some  grotesque  dream. 

He  was  an  albino.  His  gray  skin,  because  of 
its  lack  of  pigmentation,  was  splotched  with 
eczema ;  his  wool  was  a  dirty,  yellowish  white ;  his 
features  were  permanently  distorted  because  of 
his  lifelong  efforts  to  keep  the  light  from  paining 
his  pink  eyes.  The  askaris  threw  this  monstrosity 
upon  his  face  before  Lilla's  chair.  He  lay  moan 
ing  and  feebly  moving  his  hands,  as  if  he  were 
caressing  the  earth. 

Suddenly  he  sat  up  on  his  haunches.  His  body 
jumped  from  the  beating  of  his  heart.  He  fixed 
on  Lilla  a  look  that  was  the  utmost  caricature  of 
terror  and  entreaty. 

An  askari  let  out  a  neighing  laugh : 
311 


SACRIFICE 

"So  this  is  one  of  the  dangerous  Mambava!" 

But  the  albino  was  not  one  of  the  Mambava. 

He  was  a  man  of  the  Manyazombe,  who  dwelt  in 
the  north — an  exile,  a  solitary  wanderer,  a  lost 
soul.  Who  knew  what  aversion,  what  indefinable 
dread,  his  dissimilarity  had  produced  in  his  own 
people,  what  village  calamities  he  had  been  blamed 
for,  what  persecutions  he  had  suffered?  For  some 
reason  he  had  fled  from  his  own  tribe,  to  be  greeted 
at  the  outskirts  of  alien  villages  with  showers  of 
spears.  He  had  learned  to  reciprocate  the  horror 
of  mankind.  Then  he  had  dwelt  in  the  jungle, 
joining  the  furtive  beasts.  But  still,  moved  by  an 
obscure,  invincible  need,  he  crept  in  thickets  from 
which  he  might  watch  the  life  of  human  beings, 
feasting  His  eyes  on  the  fire-splashed  bodies  of  men 
and  women,  listening  to  the  songs  and  the  laugh 
ter,  filling  his  nostrils  with  the  savor  of  his  kind, 
as  a  damned  spirit  might  creep  back  to  the  warmth 
of  life  from  a  desolate  hereafter. 

But  what  did  he  see  now?  Was  she  who  sat  be 
fore  him  human  or  divine — one  of  those  who  must 
be  placated  by  strict  deeds,  by  charms  or  the  blood 
of  animals  and  captives ;  some  spirit  of  the  jungle 
that  had  made  herself  visible,  in  her  marvelous 
pallor  and  uncanny  costume,  amid  a  retinue  of 
mortals  inured  to  her  magic? 

"Tell  him  that  he  is  safe,"  she  said,  with  a 
movement  of  loathing. 

312 


SACRIFICE 

Falling  forward,  he  embraced  her  boots  with  his 
hands. 

A  porter  who  understood  his  language  was  sum 
moned  to  question  him.  The  albino  had  just  now 
crept  through  the  country  of  the  Mambava.  He 
had  not  dared  to  linger  there ;  for  on  all  the  forest 
trails  bands  of  warriors  were  moving  in  toward 
the  rendezvous  where,  as  soon  as  the  moon  was 
full,  they  would  hold  the  dances.  Yet  in  the  midst 
of  those  forests  he  had  seen  the  camp  of  white 
men. 

"He  has  seen  it!"  she  cried,  leaning  forward  to 
devour  with  her  eyes  that  hideous  and  precious 
instrument  of  fate.  "Hamoud,  he  has  seen  him! 
He  can  guide  us  there!"  And  with  a  look  of  ten 
derness  she  murmured,  "You  will  show  us  the 
way  ?  Ah,  I  will  give  you — I  will  give  you " 

She  saw  herself  pouring  gold  over  the  pariah. 

He  bowed  his  head  till  his  dirty,  yellowish  poll 
nearly  touched  his  gray  knees  that  were  covered 
with  callouses.  Amid  the  close-packed,  silent  audi 
ence  a  smothered  phrase  rose  to  the  ears  of  the 
interpreter.  Hamoud,  turning  away  his  face,  cast 
forth  the  words: 

"Too  late." 

For  the  albino,  while  creeping  round  that  camp 
in  the  Mambava  forests,  had  heard  of  a  strange 
thing,  of  the  shooting  of  one  of  the  white  men  in 
the  night.  Those  discussing  the  matter  had  not 
known  how  it  had  happened,  since  they  had  all  been 

313 


SACRIFICE 

asleep.  The  white  man  was  then  dying.  By  this 
time,  no  doubt,  he  was  dead. 

She  sank  back  as  if  she,  too,  had  received  a  bul 
let.  But  after  a  time,  during  which  that  dark 
throng  had  not  stirred,  she  rose  and  entered  her 
tent.  There  Hamoud  found  her  standing,  swaying 
slightly,  with  closed  eyes.  An  invisible  hand  had 
brushed  across  her  countenance,  effacing  the  last 
traces  of  her  beauty. 

"Do  we  still  go  on?"  breathed  Hamoud. 

Without  opening  her  eyes  she  returned,  in  a 
loud  voice : 

"He  shall  not  die  till  I  get  there." 

Hamoud 's  look  of  sadness  gave  place  to  a  look 
of  peacef 


CHAPTER  LXI 

AT  daybreak  the  safari  entered  the  forest. 

Two  askaris  went  first,  guarding  the  albino. 
Next,  since  the  forest  trail  was  too  narrow  for 
hammock  travel,  Lilla  came  afoot  with  Hamoud, 
seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  feeling  no  physi 
cal  weariness  or  pain.  Behind  her  the  rest  of  the 
askaris  herded  along  the  porters. 

The  huge  tree  trunks  sprang  up  toward  a  firma 
ment  of  somber  green,  from  which  descended  dense 
festoons  of  vines.  Through  this  twilight  flitted 
birds  of  brilliant  plumage  and  long-haired  mon 
keys.  The  place  had  a  morose,  nefarious  beauty, 
like  the  forest  in  the  prophecy  of  Anna  Zanidov. 

Now  and  then  a  glade  appeared,  hung  with  flow 
ers  of  mustard  yellow  or  diaphanous  purple.  Then 
again  the  tunnel-like  trail,  the  green  twilight,  the 
flapping  of  carmine  wings,  and  a  shaft  of  sunshine 
piercing  the  canopy  to  rest  upon  the  gnawed  bones 
of  a  forest  deer.  Here  and  there  stood  clumps  of 
brown  reeds,  without  twigs  or  buds,  as  though  a 
band  of  warriors  had  buried  their  spear  blade 
down  in  the  earth  before  vanishing  into  the  thick 
ets.  But  one  saw  no  faces  except  those  of  the 
monkeys. 

315 


SACRIFICE 

They  camped  in  a  glade  beside  a  spring.  The 
drums  filled  the  night  with  their  throbbing,  which 
seemed  part  of  the  throbbing  in  Lilla's  feverish 
head.  The  askaris  kept  double  guarcl ;  but  at  dawn 
eleven  of  the  porters  were  missing. 

Ahead  of  the  marching  safari,  in  a  clearing 
spotted  with  large,  dirty-white  blossoms,  six  black 
men  sat  motionless  round  the  ashes  of  a  camp  fire. 
They  were  watchers  posted  here  to  see  that  no 
strangers  entered  their  land  at  the  season  of  the 
dances. 

Although  they  could  not  take  part  in  those  mys 
teries  they  wore  the  full  dance  regalia.  They  were 
crowned  with  towering  shakoes  of  black-and-white 
monkey  hair,  fastened  under  their  chins  with 
beaded  straps,  and  bristling  with  egrets.  Their 
bodies  were  smeared  with  indigo  and  blotched 
with  large  discs  of  white  paint;  their  faces  were 
painted  white,  but  their  noses  were  covered  with 
soot.  They  wore  not  a  scrap  of  clothing;  but 
around  their  necks  and  on  their  arms  and  legs 
they  had  a  wealth  of  talismans — tiny  figures  fash 
ioned  from  clay,  from  iron,  from  copper  and  from 
stones,  in  which  one  might  discern  the  character 
istics  of  Phoenician  images  debased  by  thousands 
of  years  of  savage  inspiration.  In  their  painted, 
plumed,  bedizened  immobility  they  appeared  in 
human,  or  perhaps  less  than  human — the  personi 
fications  of  Africa's  blind  and  vivid  soul,  the  full 

316 


SACEIFICE 

efflorescence  of  this  gloomy,  white-splotched  clear 
ing. 

They  raised  their  heads  as  a  seventh,  crowned 
and  painted  as  they  were,  stood  forth  from  a  cur 
tain  of  vines.  On  his  left  arm  he  wore  a  shield 
covered  with  black-and-white  patterns;  above  the 
shield  rim  glittered  the  blades  of  three  spears. 

He  described  what  he  had  seen. 

He  told  of  a  train  of  dark-skinned  men,  guided 
by  one  with  unexceptional  features,  but  with  yel 
lowish  wool  and  a  skin  that  resembled  the  belly  of 
a  dead  fish.  These  intruders  served  a  personage 
such  as  had  never  been  seen.  For  she — if  indeed 
a  woman — was  tall,  with  a  face  the  color  of  the 
highest  mountain  peaks,  and  eyes  gleaming  like 
strange  stones.  She  walked  as  if  in  a  trance ;  but 
in  her  trancelike  face  was  a  cold  grief,  or  maybe 
a  cold  fury,  like  that  of  some  goddess  whose  taboos 
had  been  broken,  and  who  was  marching  to  ven 
geance. 

They  sat  awe-stricken,  filled  with  that  dread  of 
the  supernatural  which  possesses  the  savage  who 
is  confronted  with  anything  unheard  of.  Besides, 
the  spell  of  the  dances  was  upon  them,  remote 
though  they  were  from  that  scene — the  far-off 
frenzies  that  were  preparing  had  begun  to  trouble 
their  nerves.  But  at  last  their  leader  rose.  Moved 
by  the  mysticism  of  the  season,  when  every  act 
must  take  on  a  liturgical  quality,  he  chanted  the 
question : 

317 


SACRIFICE 

"Who  is  the  woman  with  the  cold  face  who  en 
ters  our  country  at  the  time  of  the  Dances  of  the 
Moon?" 

All  his  companions  repeated  his  question  in  a 
low,  singing  tone,  touching  their  amulets,  and  rais 
ing  their  whitened  visages  toward  the  interlaced 
branches  and  vines. 

The  leader's  high,  tremulous  voice  was  heard 
again : 

"Is  it  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood;  or  is  it  the 
Lady  of  the  Moon?" 

It  was  the  genius  of  the  ancient  Phoenicians,  the 
spirit  of  Astoreth,  surviving  distorted  through 
all  these  ages  in  the  depths  of  the  jungle,  exerting 
its  spell. 

But  a  look  of  cunning  entered  his  blood-shot 
eyes ;  and  his  flexible  mask  of  white  was  creased 
by  a  smile.  He  cried  out  in  a  new  voice : 

"If  she  is  the  Lady  of  the  Moon  our  spears  will 
not  hurt  her!" 

He  bounded  into  the  air,  stamped  his  feet,  shook 
his  headdress,  and  crouched  in  an  attitude  of  war. 
.  "But  if  she  is  flesh  and  blood  our  spears  will 
tell  us  sol" 

All  leaped  to  their  feet.  Their  brandished 
spears  made  nimbuses  over  their  heads ;  and  this 
time  their  response  was  like  the  baying  of  hounds. 
Then,  one  by  one,  stepping  lightly,  they  slipped 
through  the  curtain  of  vines. 


CHAPTER  LXII 

TEEES,  trees,  trees.  They  were  colossal,  draped 
in  moss  and  lichen,  ferns  growing  from  the  crooks 
of  their  limbs,  above  the  impenetrable  thickets  of 
broad-leaved  plants  from  which  came  the  tinkle  of 
rills.  Here  and  there  had  fallen  across  the  nar 
row  corridor  a  tree  trunk  riddled  by  ants ;  as  Lilla 
stepped  over  it  blue  scorpions  scuttled  away. 

Hour  after  hour  there  floated  before  her  the 
f ezzes  and  khaki-covered  backs  of  the  two  leading 
askaris,  trim,  narrow,  jaunty  backs  flanking  the 
leprous  shoulders  of  the  albino.  Now  and  again 
Hamoud,  a  robed  figment  always  beside  her,  ad 
dressed  her  in  an  unintelligible  language. 

"Dying.    Dying.    Dying." 

Too  late,  perhaps,  even  for  that  last  embrace  of 
glances,  that  moment  of  pardon  and  love  which 
was  all  that  she  had  asked.  Closed  eyes,  sealed 
lips,  a  similacrum  to  mock  her  will,  left  behind  by 
the  spirit  that  had  gone  where  she  and  the  safari 
could  not  follow. 

"All  the  same,  I  shall  not  be  far  behind  you! 
My  spirit,  when  it  has  shaken  off  this  flesh,  will 
travel  faster  than  yours,  on  the  wings  of  a  su 
preme  necessity.  I  shall  find  you ! ' ' 

319 


SACRIFICE 

She  stopped  short,  bewildered  by  a  new  halluci 
nation — a  flash  of  silvery  light  across  her  face. 
She  saw  one  of  the  leading  askaris  kneel  down  and 
stretch  himself  upon  his  face,  as  if  trying  to  press 
against  the  ground  a  thin  shaft  that  seemed  to  be 
lying  crosswise  under  his  chest.  Then  she  heard 
an  explosion,  and  perceived  a  film  of  smoke  full 
of  horizontal  gleams — the  blades  of  flying  spears. 

She  had  a  fleeting  impression  of  Hamoud,  his 
arm  outstretched,  his  hand  spitting  fire.  Beyond 
him  the  albino  vanished  in  mid-air.  The  second 
askari,  his  rifle  lowered,  was  staring  in  vague  sur 
mise  at  his  breast,  from  which  protruded  a  piece 
of  polished  wood.  At  that  moment  she  found  her 
self  surrounded  by  khaki-clad  forms  all  moving 
with  catlike  grace.  The  dark  faces  under  the 
f ezzes  were  changed  by  the  fervor  of  battle ;  the 
bared  teeth  shone  out  beside  the  locks  of  the  rifles. 
These  thin,  hard  bodies,  buffeting  her  about, 
formed  round  her  a  rampart  from  which  the  blades 
of  steel  were  answered  by  blades  of  flame. 

Hamoud  rose  from  the  ground  at  her  feet,  draw 
ing  his  dagger.  An  askari  grunted  and  sat  down 
with  a  thud.  Then  she  saw  that  they  were  in  the 
midst  of  a  glade.  Among  the  bushes  flitted  the 
pattern  of  a  shield,  a  clump  of  egrets,  a  whitened 
visage  that  seemed  to  lack  a  nose.  The  askaris' 
rifles  rose,  spouted  fire,  sank  down  with  a  click, 
rose,  crashed  again.  Silence  fell. 

320 


SACRIFICE 

The  blue  veil  of  smoke  rose  slowly,  all  in  one 
piece. 

Then,  without  warning,  came  the  charge. 

She  became  aware  of  an  incredible  apparition 
— a  sort  of  naked  harlequin,  magnified  by  a  tower 
ing  headdress,  sailing  high,  twisting  over  his  shield 
like  a  pole  vaulter  over  a  pole,  coming  down 
asprawl  in  a  bed  of  crimson  flowers.  Another 
followed,  crouching — or  else  this  was  only  a 
swiftly  advancing  shield,  topped  by  a  tuft  of 
egrets.  But  from  one  side  of  the  shield  darted 
out  a  long,  indigo  arm,  releasing  a  spear :  an  askari 
leaned  against  Lilla,  coughed,  and  slipped  to  the 
ground.  The  advancing  shield  doubled  up,  to  re 
veal  a  warrior  who,  with  a  somersault,  a  rattle  of 
amulets,  a  blur  of  broad  polka  dots,  lay  flat,  his 
face  blown  away. 

More  shields  were  rushing  upon  the  guns,  how 
ever. 

The  Mambava,  shot  through  and  through,  feel 
ing  death  upon  them,  maintained  their  momentum 
long  enough  to  drive  their  weapons  through  the 
khaki  jackets,  or,  at  the  least,  to  go  down  with  their 
teeth  buried  in  the  riflemen's  necks,  as  if  that 
draught  of  blood  might  reanimate  them.  The 
wrestlers  sank  to  earth  inextricably  mingled,  a  fist 
perhaps  sticking  up  above  the  tangle  and  slowly 
relinquishing  a  broad-bladed  Somali  knife. 

One  remained  apart,  some  dozen  yards  away, 
shot  through  the  hips,  but  still  dragging  himself 

321 


SACRIFICE 

forward.  From  his  open  mouth,  yawning  black 
in  the  whitened  face,  issued  roars  like  those  of  a 
crippled  lion,  as  with  a  lion 's  courage  he  still  came 
on,  his  legs  trailing,  his  body  scraping  the  soil,  a 
spear  in  one  clenched  paw. 

Lilla  stood  paralyzed,  alone  before  that  inexor 
able  advance. 

For  the  rampart  of  askaris  had  become  a  circle 
of  dead  men,  expressing  with  their  last  gestures  a 
deep  desire  to  be  remerged  with  this  rich,  dark, 
ancient  earth. 

But  all  at  once,  as  though  a  bit  of  blue  sky  had 
fallen  into  the  glade,  there  appeared  between  Lilla 
and  the  crawling  warrior,  a  figure  of  trailing  blue 
robes,  bent  double,  running.  It  was  Hamoud,  his 
turban  gone,  his  cheek  smeared  with  loam,  one 
shoulder  of  his  robe  stained  a  deep  violet. 

Clapping  his  sandaled  foot  upon  the  spear  blade, 
he  seized  the  Mambava  by  his  plume  of  egrets. 
The  painted  head  was  dragged  back.  The  Zanzi 
bar  dagger  shone  through  the  ribbons  of  smoke. 

Her  mouth  twisted  in  abnormal  shapes  as  she 
struggled  to  cry  out.  "Hamoud!"  she  screamed 
at  last,  raising  her  arms  as  high  as  she  could,  and 
trying  to  tear  her  gaze  away  from  that  spectacle. 
The  Arab's  pose,  as  he  bent  over  his  enemy,  was 
a  frightful  burlesque  of  solicitude.  How  many 
times  had  she  not  seen  him  bending  thus  over 
David,  maybe  to  smooth  his  pillow?  And  now, 
against  the  colonnade  of  gloomy  trees,  there  was 

322 


SACRIFICE 

something  sacrificial  in  that  tableau — the  blue 
robe,  the  wet  dagger,  the  plumed  head  pulled  back, 
with  glazed  eyes  fixed  on  the  woman  who  stood 
rigid,  her  arms  upstretched,  transformed  from  the 
giver  of  life  into  the  giver  of  death. 

She  fled,  stumbled,  stood  still  in  the  entrance  to 
the  back-trail.  In  that  leafy  tunnel,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see,  was  no  one  living  or  dead.  The  por 
ters,  the  tent  boys,  all  were  gone  in  a  stampede  for 
safety.  The  baggage  lay  scattered  among  the  fern 
beds.  She  saw  bundles  of  green  canvas,  chop 
boxes,  rags,  bursting  sacks  of  grain.  Beside  a 
mossy  rock  lay  her  dressing  case  smashed  open, 
its  mirror,  brushes,  and  vials  trampled  into  the 
mud. 

"Ah,  my  mirror  is  broken/' 

She  wandered  through  the  wreckage,  uttering 
peals  of  laughter. 


CHAPTER  LXIII 

THE  light  of  the  full  moon,  penetrating  the  high 
canopy  of  leaves,  illuminated  the  contorted  vines 
that  hnng  motionless  in  mid-air  like  pythons  of 
silver.  Here,  miles  beyond  the  place  of  battle, 
apart  from  the  trail,  in  a  covert  that  seemed  made 
for  them,  the  woman  and  the  man  sat  resting,  she 
on  a  mound  of  moss  as  soft  as  a  pile  of  velvet 
cushions,  he  at  her  feet.  A  moonbeam  rested  on 
her  loosened  hair  and  her  dress  that  was  torn  to 
tatters.  She  raised  her  head  as  the  sound  of  the 
drums  came  to  her  from  far  away. 

To-night  there  was  a  new  accent  in  that  throb 
bing,  a  wilder  cadence,  a  suggestion  of  tumult,  a 
hint  of  the  infernal.  In  her  fancy  she  perceived  a 
multitude  of  naked,  painted  figures  dancing  in  the 
glamor  of  great  fires. 

A  shudder  passed  through  her  from  head  to 
foot,  as  she  said: 

"Now  you  will  confess  that  we  have  come  into 
a  place  where  God  does  not  exist." 

He  cast  round  her  his  blood-stained  robe. 
Through  a  rent  in  his  white  kanzu,  which  was  glued 
to  his  body,  his  shoulder  appeared,  covered  with  a 
black  encrustation. 

324 


SACKIFICE 

" Wherever  we  turn,"  he  answered,  "there  is 
the  face  of  God." 

"So  you  still  believe?  You  could  even  pray, 
perhaps?" 

By  way  of  response,  casting  up  his  dark  eyes,  he 
pronounced  the  Fatihah,  his  low  voice  mingling 
with  the  mutter  of  the  drums : 

"In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate! 
Praise  belongeth  to  God,  the  Lord  of  the  Worlds, 
the  King  of  the  Day  of  Doom.  Thee  do  we  serve, 
and  of  Thee  do  we  ask  aid.  Guide  us  in  the 
straight  path,  the  path  of  those  to  whom  Thou  hast 
been  gracious,  not  of  those  with  whom  Thou  art 
angered,  or  of  those  who  stray.  Amen." 

"Delusion!"  she  moaned. 

His  gaze  embraced  her  in  pity.  His  precisely 
modeled  face,  still  so  youthful  despite  his  delicate 
beard,  and  almost  spiritually  handsome  in  the 
moonlight,  yearned  toward  her  as  he  returned, 
with  a  caressing  gentleness : 

"Yes,  surely  this  present  life  is  only  a  play,  a 
pastime.  This  world,  and  all  in  it,  are  shadows 
cast  upon  the  screen  of  eternity.  But  God  is  real. 
Everything  may  go  to  destruction,  but  not  the  face 
of  God.  Ah,"  he  sighed,  "if  only  the  Lord  had 
opened  your  heart  to  Islam,  had  willed  that  you 
might  feel  the  Inner  Light !  No  matter  what  may 
happen,  there  is  peace."  He  dreamed  sadly  for 
a  time,  then  said,  "Fair-seeming  to  men  are 
women;  but  God — goodly  the  home  with  him!" 

325 


SACRIFICE 

And  he  averted  his  head  from  her,  as  though  from 
a  temptation  to  apostasy. 

Something  moved  in  the  bushes.  Hamoud  raised 
a  rifle  from  the  moss  into  his  lap.  Amid  the  leaves 
two  balls  of  green  fire  appeared  and  disappeared. 
It  was  a  leopard  that  had  peeped  out  at  them. 

The  drum  music  swelled  through  the  forest. 

"To-morrow  they  will  find  us,"  she  reflected. 

"Meanwhile  we  live  in  this  flesh,  subject  to  its 
beliefs,  still  able  to  trust  in  its  seeming  powers  of 
delight." 

So,  after  a  long  hush,  he  took  from  his  bosom  a 
little  glass  bottle  of  square  surfaces  enameled  with 
gold,  uncorked  it,  and  held  it  out  to  her.  There 
came  to  her  nostrils  the  odor  of  her  own  perfume, 
which  she  had  worn  in  a  lost  world. 

"Clothe  yourself  in  this  sweetness,"  he  whis 
pered.  "Touch  it  once  more  to  your  temples,  your 
hair,  your  lips.  Let  it  float  about  you  like  a  veil 
that  covers  a  beauty  remembered  from  old  dreams. 
These  rags  will  become  cloth  of  gold  on  the  body 
of  the  Sultana  of  Sultanas.  I  shall  sit  while  still 
alive  in  those  gardens  beneath  whose  shades  the 
rivers  flow — those  charming  abodes  that  are  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden.  This,  and  not  Paradise,  shall 
be  the  great  bliss." 

She  poured  the  few  drops  of  perfume  into  her 
palms,  and  held  out  her  hands. 

"Ah,  Hamoud " 

"Do  not  speak,"  he  protested,  catching  her 
326 


SACRIFICE 

hands  in  his.  "It  is  this  moment  for  which  I  be 
came  a  servant,  did  things  that  you  will  never  know 
of,  and  followed  you  here. ' ' 

She  sat  in  the  blood-stained  robe,  in  the  dark 
forest  vibrating  from  the  drums  and  rustling  with 
stealthy  beasts,  lost,  bereft  of  beauty  and  faith, 
yet  aware  of  one  more  miracle — realizing  that  even 
now,  out  of  her  poverty,  she  could  still  bestow 
happinessa 


CHAPTEE  LXIVj 

AT  daybreak  they  went  on. 

With  his  shoulders  bowed  under  a  distended 
sack  and  a  canvas  water  bottle,  and  with  his  rifle 
at  trail,  he  guided  her  feeble  steps  along  the  path. 
Now  and  then  he  besought  her  to  rest.  She  shook 
her  head. 

Bees  hummed  above  them  in  the  festoons  of 
flowers.  Purple  parrots  with  scarlet  crests  went 
fluttering  away.  At  noon  they  paused,  ate  some 
biscuits,  then  pressed  ahead,  she  driven  by  her 
obsession  and  he,  as  he  believed,  by  the  purposes 
of  Allah. 

Just  as  a  rosy  warmth  was  invading  the  upper 
foliage,  Hamoud  pushed  her  from  him,  and  struck 
at  the  ground  with  his  gun  butt.  He  had  stepped 
upon  a  puff  adder. 

He  sat  down  to  examine  his  ankle,  on  which  four 
tiny  pinpricks  were  visible.  He  looked  up  with  a 
fixed  smile. 

There  it  lay,  a  little,  crushed  reptile,  a  trivial 
fragment  of  matter,  its  triangular  head  flattened 
out,  its  scales  of  pinkish  gray,  black,  slate,  and 
lemon  yellow  already  turning  dull.  Yet  the  man, 

328 


SACRIFICE 

a  rational  being,  with  power  for  good  as  well  as 
evil,  for  love  as  well  as  hatred,  was  even  now  dy 
ing  from  it.  But  his  face  expressed  the  fortitude 
that  was  at  the  same  time  the  blessing  and  the 
curse  of  his  religion,  as  he  said  to  her : 

"Go.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  see  me  die  this 
death." 

She  knelt  down  to  peer  at  those  almost  imper 
ceptible  punctures. 

"From  that ?" 

As  she  spoke  he  seized  his  leg  above  the  knee,  to 
choke  back  the  first  excruciating  pang.  Eocking 
backward  and  forward,  he  began  to  repeat  scat 
tered  texts  from  the  Koran: 

"The  recompense  of  the  life  to  come  is  better, 

for  those  who  have  believed  and  feared  God " 

With  a  groan  he  let  go  of  his  leg  and  clutched  at 
his  abdomen.  He  gasped,  "Adorned  shall  they 
be  with  golden  bracelets  and  with  pearls,  and  their 

raiment  shall  be  of  silk Go !  go !  Oh,  my  star, 

I  do  not  want  you  to  see  me  die  this  death !"  He 
arched  his  back,  then  lay  flat,  his  skin  colorless, 
bedewed  with  a  sudden  moisture.  "Praise  be  to 
God,  who  hath  allowed  release  from  all  this,  my 
Master,  the  Knowing,  the  "Wise !  Into  gardens  be 
neath  whose  shades Ah,  but  you  will  not  be 

there !  You  will  not  be  there ! ' ' 

He  was  silent,  twisting  like  the  serpent  whose 
head  he  had  crushed. 

This  was  not  strange  to  her.  It  was  part  of  the 
329 


SACRIFICE 

whole;  it  completed  the  pattern.  Yet  her  mind, 
exalted  by  horror,  seemed  to  discern  in  his  agony 
a  mysterious  folly.  Then  she  recalled  another 
oppressed  by  fatal  thoughts,  yet  held  back  from 
the  brink  of  death.  She  gathered  him  into  her 
arms  and  laid  his  cheek  on  her  bosom,  as  though, 
in  the  very  stronghold  of  destruction,  she  might 
conquer  again. 

"Live!    Live!" 

But  his  voice  was  failing  when  he  got  out  the 
words : 

"There  is  a  union  more  splendid  than  the  union 
of  love — the  union  of  death.  If  you  could  die  now, 
instead  of  to-night  or  to-morrow!  Alas!  Fare 
well!  Farewell!" 

He  lost  the  power  of  speech.  Drowsiness  pos 
sessed  him.  But  he  could  still  hear  her  crying, 
far  off,  "Live!  Live!"  And  he  knew  that  his 
head  was  pillowed  on  her  breast. 

Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  cheated  fate, 
that  it  was  the  other  whom  she  held  in  her  arms. 
It  was  the  other's  still  living  face  upon  which  she 
rained  these  kisses.  "Believe  me !  Forgive  me ! ' ' 

Hamoud-bin-Said  slipped  away  from  her  into 
the  past.  Round  him  gathered  the  scent  of  the 
clove  trees,  the  music  of  Zanzibar,  the  faces  of 
old  loves  whose  languorous  eyes  expanded  into  the 
glitter  of  the  sea.  Through  this  glitter,  in  a  dhow 
gay  with  banners,  he  drifted  toward  remoter  days, 
which  had  been  full  of  capricious  glee  and  weep- 

330 


SACRIFICE 

ing  over  nothing.  At  last,  both  Lilla  and  his  Gfod 
forgotten,  he  turned  his  face  on  her  bosom  with 
the  movement  of  a  little  child  that  is  tired  from 
an  hour  of  silly  play. 


CHAPTER  LXV 

NIGHT  was  falling:  it  was  the  time  when  the 
beasts  of  prey  begin  to  stir  from  their  lairs.  Sit 
ting  beside  the  semblance  of  Hamoud,  she  exam 
ined  in  the  last  of  the  twilight  the  well-worn 
Koran.  She  hurled  the  book  from  her.  It  was 
swallowed  by  the  gloom.  "You  have  won,"  she 
thought,  regarding  the  murky  thickets  that  were 
hung  with  morbific  blossoms,  the  trees  that  re 
mained  a  labyrinth  even  while  they  dissolved  in 
the  night. 

In  her  progress  hither  she  had  cast  off,  one  by 
one,  all  her  repugnances  and  terrors,  all  her  proud 
and  luxurious  impulses,  all  her  charms.  Nothing 
had  remained  except  a  love  that  expected  and  de 
sired  no  physical  rewards,  and  a  power  of  will 
that  she  had  conjured  up  apparently  out  of  noth 
ing. 

Now  both  will  and  love  lay  vanquished. 

The  drums  were  not  yet  beating.  Silence  filled 
the  forest  that  should  have  been  alive  with  little 
furtive  noises.  Nature,  of  which  this  place  was 
the  core  and  utmost  manifestation,  seemed  to 
brood  with  bated  breath. 

332 


SACRIFICE 

She  began  to  speak,  urgently,  seductively: 

"When  they  come  yon  will  wake  up  and  protect 
me,  Hamond  ?  You  love  me,  and  I  once  read  some 
where  that  love  can  be  stronger  than  death.  But 
now  sleep;  get  back  your  strength.  I'll  keep 
watch.  I'm  not  afraid;  for  I  have  only  to  reach 
out  my  hand  to  touch  you." 

She  touched  the  cold  forehead  and  muttered, 
"How  chilly  you  are!"  and  threw  over  the  body 
of  the  martyr  the  torn  joho,  which  she  had  been 
wearing  round  her  shoulders.  There  was  long 
silence.  The  whole  forest  sighed  softly,  as  if 
weary  of  waiting. 

"What  did  you  say,  Hamoudf  A  play  of  shad 
ows'?  And  above  it  a  permanence  that  you  call 
the  face  of  God?  What  queer  things  your  God 
must  see  in  this  shadow  play  of  ours ! ' 9 

She  laughed  indulgently,  then  caught  her 
breath.  The  darkness  was  filled  with  an  amazing 
sight. 

Before  her  a  great  pyramid  of  bodies  rose  to 
ward  an  apex  surrounded  by  flashes  of  pink  light 
ning — the  seething  bodies  of  all  humanity,  and  of 
all  the  animals  and  reptiles  of  the  earth.  Each 
struggled  to  extricate  itself  from  the  rest,  to  sur 
mount  its  neighbors,  to  wriggle  toward  the  apex. 
The  bare  breasts  of  women,  whose  handsome  ball 
gowns  were  torn  and  covered  with  mud,  strained  to 
be  free  from  the  enwrapping  trunks  of  elephants, 
and  the  coils  of  pythons.  The  torsoes  of  dusky 

333 


SACRIFICE 

savages  and  the  limbs  of  white  men  writhed  under 
the  fangs  of  lions  and  hyenas,  which  were  trans 
fixed  by  spears,  or  lacerated  by  wonnds  that  they 
had  inflicted  on  one  another.  The  countless  faces 
exposed  on  that  quaking  mountain  of  flesh,  male 
and  female,  light  and  dark,  fair  and  hideous,  brut 
ish  and  sensitive,  expressed  one  look  of  stupid 
and  yet  agonized  desire — all  eyes  were  turned  up 
ward  toward  the  summit  wreathed  with  lightning. 
There  those  who  had  just  gained  their  goal,  lightly 
touched  by  the  tips  of  the  rose-colored  bolts,  sank 
back  inanimate,  went  tumbling  down  the  slope  with 
astonishment  frozen  on  their  faces,  scattering 
broadcast  from  their  hands  a  cascade  of  treasures 
— jewels,  scraps  of  paper,  purses,  images  of  gold 
and  ivory,  wreaths  of  laurel  or  of  lilies,  scepters, 
and  objects  in  which  no  one  could  have  discovered 
any  meaning  or  any  worth. 

But  what  was  the  goal  toward  which  this  mass 
of  flesh  was  striving  so  frantically?  Above  the 
apex  of  the  pyramid,  amid  the  sheen  of  the  light 
ning,  was  revealed  a  vast  figure,  naked  and  inde 
terminate,  dim  and  yet  seeming  of  a  denser  texture 
than  the  most  abysmal  beasts,  a  figure  at  the  same 
time  human  and  serpentine,  that  twisted  in  atti 
tudes  of  human  anguish,  yet  appeared,  like  a  mad 
dened  serpent,  to  be  stinging  itself  to  death. 

The  whole  vision  vanished. 

'  *  Hamoud !    Hamoud !    Now  I  'm  afraid ! ' ' 
334 


SACEIFICE 

Bnt  she  could  not  wake  the  protector.  She  was 
alone. 

"God,  then!" 

And  in  one  last  flash  of  distracted  irony: 

"If  I  called  God  in  Arabic?" 

She  had  an  idea  that  the  silently  brooding  for 
est  was  smiling  in  the  darkness. 

Yes,  she  felt,  alone;  since  even  the  God  of  Ha- 
moud  could  not  be  aware  of  this  world,  in  which 
everything  desired  by  the  senses,  or  apprehensible 
by  them,  was  going  to  destruction — so  futile  a 
tragedy,  so  contemptible  a  fleeting  dream,  a  noth 
ingness  of  which  the  miserable  woman  seemed  to 
see  herself,  at  last,  as  the  most  insignificant  part. 

"But  I  have  cast  it  off,  left  it  all  behind  me! 
You  must  hear  me !  You  shall  hear  me ! ' ' 

When  her  voice,  a  thin  blade  of  sound,  pierced 
the  silence  of  the  black  forest,  without  a  premoni 
tory  thud  the  rumble  of  the  drums  began,  as  though 
the  roused  spirit  of  the  jungle  were  trying  to 
drown  out  this  cry.  The  drum  music  swelled 
louder  and  louder  in  the  breathless  night,  its  min 
gled  rhythms  combining  into  a  thunder.  But  once 
more  the  cry,  "Hear  me !"  rose  to  contest  with  that 
demoniacal  uproar. 

When  she  had  remained  motionless  for  a  while 
with  upturned  face,  weariness  rolled  down  upon 
her  like  an  avalanche. 

The  moonlight,  creeping  through  the  tangles, 
covered  her  prostrate  body.  She  was  dreaming 

335 


SACRIFICE 

that  Anna  Zanidov  stood  before  her  in  the  bar- 
barically  painted  evening  gown.    She  sat  up  with 
a  bound.    Hands  had  embraced  her  feet.    A  gray 
ish  form  crouched  before  her. 
The  albino  had  heard  her. 


CHAPTER  LXVI 

SITTING  back  upon  his  heels,  hugging  against  his 
breast  a  small  bow  and  a  handful  of  arrows,  the 
albino  scrutinized  the  fallen  divinity.  Yes,  by 
some  pass  of  magic  she  had  been  changed  into  a 
helpless  human  being,  full  of  human  despair.  The 
poor  pariah  contemplated  her  in  her  abasement 
from  an  eminence  of  pity. 

He  rose  with  an  uncouth  gesture  of  invitation. 
He  guided  her  through  the  mottled  labyrinth. 
Stumbling  over  the  roots,  bursting  her  way 
through  the  vines,  she  pressed  after  the  bent  fig 
ure  whose  very  loathsomeness  now  seemed  pre 
cious  to  her. 

He  had  found  the  lost  path.  He  crept  forward 
more  quickly,  halted  at  last,  and  pointed.  Ahead 
there  expanded  a  wide  sheen  of  moonlight,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  discerned  a  man  standing  like 
a  statue,  a  fez  on  his  head  and  a  rifle  over  his 
arm. 

The  albino  was  gone. 

A  challenge  rang  out  as  she  stood  forth  on  the 
edge  of  the  clearing.  Beyond  the  sentinel  she  saw 
red  embers  and  tents,  rising  black  skulls,  and  agi- 

337 


SACRIFICE 

tated  fezzes.  But  in  the  midst  of  a  broad  pool  of 
moonlight  was  spread  a  tent  cloth  through  which 
appeared  the  outline  of  a  body. 

She  sank  down  upon  her  knees,  turned  back  the 
tent  cloth  from  the  inscrutable  face. 

It  was  the  face  of  Cornelius  Rysbroek,  who,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  beside  his  sleeping  rival,  while 
drawing  the  pistol  from  the  holster,  had  been  shot 
in  the  back. 

She  perceived,  on  the  curtain  of  a  tent  before 
her,  a  hand  that  thrust  back  the  folds,  a  hand  that 
moved,  that  lived.  Under  the  tent  fly  emerged  a 
man  cadaverous  from  fever,  to  gaze  at  another 
chimera,  of  tatters  and  gaunt  pallor,  in  which  he 
found  at  last  a  resemblance  to  the  woman  he  had 
loved.  Though  Lawrence  was  sure  that  this  could 
not  be  reality,  life  bubbled  up  in  him  as  she  drew 
nearer.  He  found  somehow  the  power  to  stand 
firm,  to  hold  her  fast  when  she  sagged  down  in  his 
arms. 

(2) 


THE   END 


Absorbing  Adventure  and  Romance 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 

By  George  Gibbs 
Author  of  "The  Vagrant  Duke,"  "The  Splendid  Outcast,"  etc. 

A  mystery  follows  Patsy,  the  heroine,  from  the  days  of  her  Bowery 
tenement  childhood  to  the  later  years  when  the  comforts  and  happiness 
of  a  luxurious  home  are  hers.  Interesting  characters  participate  in  her 
colorful  adventures. 

THE   HOUSE  OF  THE    FALCON 

By  Harold  Lamb 
Author  of  "Marching  Sands" 

Kidnapped  while  visiting  India,  an  American  girl  is  the  prize  for  which 
natives  fight,  amid  the  wondrous  scenes  of  the  Vale  of  Kashmir. 

THE  UNSEEN  EAR 

By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln 
Author  of  "The  Red  Seal,"  "The  Three  Strings,"  etc. 

An  absolutely  baffling  mystery,  hinging  on  a  murder  committed  in 
Washington's  smart  set. 

THE   SAMOVAR   GIRL 

By  Frederick  Moore 
Author  of  "Sailor  Girl."  etc. 

Seeking  revenge,  but  finding  romance,  a  young  man  returns  to  his 
native  Siberia  after  years  in  America. 

THE   INNOCENT  ADVENTURESS 

By  Mary  Hastings  Bradley 
Author  of  "The  Fortieth  Door,"  etc. 

"Most  piquant  little  love  story  of  any  recent  writing." — New  York 
Evening  World.  A  lovely  Italian  goes  adventuring  in  America,  seeking 
a  wealthy  husband. 

NEW  YORK  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY  LONDON 


Novels  for  Cheerful  Entertainment 


GALUSHA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
Author  of'Shmingt,"  "The  Portygee,"  etc. 

The  whole  family  will  laugh  over  this  deliciously  humorous  novel,  that 
pictures  the  sunny  side  of  small-town  life,  and  contains  love-making, 
a  dash  of  mystery,  an  epidemic  of  spook-chasing — and  laughable, 
lovable  Galusha. 

THESE   YOUNG  REBELS 

By  Frances  R.  Sterrett 
Author  of  "Nancy Got*  to  Town,"  "  Up  the  Road  with  Sally,"  ttc. 

A  sprightly  novel  that  hits  off  to  perfection  the  present  antagonism 
between  the  rebellious  younger  generation  and  their  disapproving  elders. 

PLAY  THE  GAME 

By  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

A  happy  story  about  American  young  people.  The  appealing  qualities 
of  a  brave  young  girl  stand  out  in  the  strife  between  two  young  fellows, 
the  one  by  fair  the  other  by  foul  means,  to  win  her. 

IN  BLESSED  CYRUS 

By  Laura  E.  Richards 
Author  of  "A  Daughter  of  Jehu,"  etc. 

The  quaint,  quiet  village  of  Cyrus,  with  its  whimsical  villagers,  is  abruptly 
turned  topsy-turvy  by  the  arrival  in  its  midst  of  an  actress,  distractingly 
feminine,  Lila  Laughter;  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  epidemic  of  small-pox. 

HELEN  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Wright's  greatest  novel,  that  presents  the  life  of  industry  to-day,  the 
laughter,  the  tears,  the  strivings  of  those  who  live  about  the  smoky 
chimneys  of  an  American  industrial  town. 

NEW  YORK     D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY     LONDON 

T700 


Popular  Appleton  Fiction 


THE   GREEN   BOUGH 

By  E.  Temple  Thurston 
Author  of  "The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense"  tic. 

A  powerful  story  of  a  great  passion  and  of  a  woman  who  was  not  afraid  of 
life.  Much  interest  has  been  aroused  by  this  portrayal  of  a  woman'* 
struggle  for  romance. 

THE  AGE  OF   INNOCENCE 

By  Edith  Wharton 
Author  of  "The  House  of  Mirth."  "The  Reef."  etc. 

The  novel  about  New  York  society  that  won  the  $1,000  Pulitzer  Prize 
as  the  novel  of  the  year  best  representing  "the  highest  standard  of 
American  manners  and  manhood." 

MISS  LULU  BETT 

By  Zona  Gale 

Shows  American  life  as  it  is.  In  a  household  typical  of  every  town  in 
the  country,  Miss  Lulu  Bett,  "the  unmarried  sister"  was  the  drudge. 
Read  "Miss  Lulu  Bett"  as  a  novel  or  in  its  play  form  (winner  of  the 
31,000  Pulitzer  Prize  as  the  best  American  play  of  the  year). 

CARTER  And  Other  People 

By  Don  Marquis 
Author  of  "Noah  an'  Jonah  an'  Cap'n  John  Smith,"  " Hermione,"  "Prefects."  etc. 

Short  stories  about  subjects  ranging  from  the  tragedy  of  race  to  the 
comedy  of  a  hero  who  did  not  know  he  was  one,  each  presenting  a  vivid 
slice  of  life. 

LOW  CEILINGS 

By  W.  Douglas  Newton 
Author  of  "Green  Ladies,"  etc. 

A  young  fellow  tries  to  make  the  most  of  himself,  but  is  tied  down  by 
the  suburban  narrowness  of  his  environment.  An  interesting  plot 
shows  two  women  as  representing  the  best  and  worst  that  is  in  him. 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 

T699 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUN 


2  8  1950 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


r- 


A    001246991    2 


PS 

3545 
..5907s 


